


The Wily Odysseus

by Rachel_Martin64



Category: X-Men, X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men (Original Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Males, Alternate Canon, Colliding movies, Colliding timelines, Cunning, Deception, DoFP references, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jealousy, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-X1, Sexist Language, Status: Incomplete, Team as Family, Work In Progress, X2 and X3 references, x1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-06-26 06:06:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 35,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15657291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rachel_Martin64/pseuds/Rachel_Martin64
Summary: After Liberty Island, a machiavellian and possibly insane Scott solves his Logan problem for once and for all.  Alternate summary: Charles and Logan solve one problem in DoFP and create a whole lot more.X1, with many references to the later movies. There’s a lot of worldbuilding in this story, a lot of details about how the school operates and how the team operates.





	1. Chapter 1

_Wars spring from unseen and generally insignificant causes, the first outbreak being often but an explosion of anger_ \- Thucydides

“Dammit, I knew it was a bad idea to leave the two of you in that house without adult supervision.” Ororo huffed in exasperation. “The house _is_ still standing, isn’t it?”

Scott interrupted. “I broke up with Jean tonight.” He injected a tremor into his voice. “I asked for the ring back.”

“Oh, Scott.” Ororo sighed, all annoyance instantly gone out of her voice. He heard the rustling of rearranged pillows and blankets. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised, but I wish you’d waited till I was home to pull the plug. I hate for you to be alone at a time like this.”

“Sorry to wake you up.”

“Don’t be sorry. Will you be all right? You know Charles and I don’t get back till tomorrow. This useless conference. Whose idea was this?”

 _Why, mine._ “I’ll be fine.”

“I know this is where I’m supposed to say how sorry I am, but I’m not. You’ve been engaged for six years. That’s five years too many. You should have ended this a long time ago, sweetie.”

“I know. I’ve been such an idiot. I’ve wasted the best years of my life.”

“No, no, no, guys don’t get to say that. You’re twenty-seven, you got plenty of tread on the tires. Lotsa gas in the tank. Ten years from now Heidi Klum will be squirting out your tenth baby and you’ll say ‘Jean who?’”

Scott laughed despite himself.

“See, it’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. It’s all for the best, Scott. Really. You’ll see.”

“Will you tell Charles for me? I’d rather not talk to him right now.”

“Oh, I can understand that. Yeah, I’ll tell him in the morning.”

“Okay. Okay, well. Thank you.”

“You’re gonna get through this, babe. I promise. Now go get drunk and watch porn all night.”

Scott laughed again. “You should be a shrink. You’d be the richest shrink in the world.”

“I missed my calling, didn’t I. Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow. Oops, I mean today. It’s already today. So that means I’ll see you this afternoon. Love ya.”

“Love you too.”

Scott disconnected the call and dropped his team phone on the desk. He got up, yawned, stretched, and reheated his coffee in the small microwave tucked into a corner of his office. He swallowed several mouthfuls before returning to his desk, picking up the encrypted satellite cell again and punching in the code for Emma Frost. He needed to speak with Warren Worthington too but knew Warren would be within arm’s reach of Emma. Emma and Warren were so obviously right for each other that of course they had resisted fate for years until suddenly capitulating mere months ago. Everyone associated with the Institute was glad for them. Of course, the tabloids were gladdest of all.

Emma answered on the fifth ring, hissing into her team phone over the clamor of a party. “Godzilla had better be stomping Tokyo.”

“It’s not business.” Scott had heard enough childish whining to know how to childishly whine. “It’s just been a really bad day and I need to talk to a friend right now.”

“ _Scott?_ Is that _you?_ What’s wrong?”

He heard a muffled male voice querying Emma; that would be Warren. “Give me a moment, I’m going into the study.”

He waited. The party noise receded.

“All right, Scott, talk to me. What’s going on?"

“I broke up with Jean tonight. I called off the engagement.”

“ _What?_ Can I put you on speakerphone? Warren’s in here with me.”

“Sure. He needs to know.”

“Hey, Scott. What’s going on?”

“I broke up with Jean tonight,” Scott repeated. “I called off the engagement.”

He could almost hear Warren cogitating, calculating outcomes at lightning speed. “This certainly changes the team dynamic.”

“What he _means_ to say is, he’s _very_ sorry to hear the _sad_ news.”

“No, Warren’s right. It could potentially impact the school and the team.” Scott stopped the whimpering and spoke crisply. “So I want to assure you and the Board that it won’t. Jean and I are both professionals and we’re not going to let our personal situation negatively affect the children, or the mission. We know there are much bigger issues at stake.”

“All right.” Warren sounded mollified. “We’ll talk more later. Emma and I are moving back to the city after Labor Day and we’ll come up to the school then.” Muffled voices in the background. “I have to go now. We’ll talk later.”

“Scott, why don’t you come out to the Hamptons?” Emma’s voice was clearer, closer, now that she had taken him off speakerphone. “You shouldn’t be alone right now. Plenty of room in the cottage.” Warren’s summer home, a beachfront “cottage” on Long Island, was about the size of Buckingham Palace but boasted better amenities.

“I really appreciate the invitation, but I think I’ll just stay put. Ororo prescribed alcohol and pornography.”

Emma laughed. “I can introduce you to a dozen young ladies who will be more than happy to take your mind off Jean. I’m glad you’ve come to your senses, to be honest. I’m not trying to make you feel worse, but the Board has been watching this situation develop since May and some of the trustees were beginning to question… your response.”

 _This guy can’t control his own woman, how is he supposed to control a paramilitary team?_ “Thank you for telling me. You’re a good friend, Emma. I want to hear the truth. Is there anything else I should know?”

“Well, I can tell you that you’re not the only one wondering why Charles is, uh, sponsoring, Logan. The trustees are confused as well.” Unfortunately, Emma did not choose to elaborate. “Listen, darling, I know you’re heartbroken about Jean and I should be offering you sympathy, but that’s not really my style. I’m glad you dumped her. The trustees will be glad you took your balls back. As long as there’s no drama.”

“There hasn’t been and there won’t be. Jean and I are professionals.”

“But Logan’s not. Now there’s a guy who thrives on drama. Don’t let him bait you, Scott. He’s got everything to gain and you’ve got everything to lose. God knows why, but Charles is obdurate about keeping his pet Wolverine in the house. I don’t know how you’re going to do it, but you have to find a way to live and work with him.” Emma hesitated. “Be careful, babe. I think this situation is going to get dangerous before it gets better.”

“Yes. I understand. Thank you.”

Scott ended the call. He drained his coffee mug, got up again and restlessly prowled his office on the ground floor of the mansion. His office, where he had been sleeping for a week.

He understood that he had never gambled for such high stakes. Ten years spent painstakingly constructing a productive adult life after a disastrous childhood, and now he could lose it all. _My home, my woman, my team, my reputation. My life._ He could lose _everything_ , not to a natural disaster or an accident or a military strike or a repressive policy originating in Washington, D.C. He could lose everything to an overgrown schoolyard bully.

Too lazy to build a life of his own, Logan intended to take a shortcut and steal Scott’s life. Logan was the one contingency Scott had never anticipated, the one scenario missing from his playbook. _I’m like the dinosaurs who never saw the asteroid coming._

Charles was undermining him, Jean was betraying him, Logan was humiliating him. The three of them were transforming him into an object of ridicule and pity. Worst of all, the Xavier Foundation’s trustees were losing confidence in him. Sebastian Shaw, Donald Pierce, Harry Leland and the others were impassively observing the struggle, not caring who won, ready to negotiate with the victor.

Scott walked back to his desk and awakened his laptop. He tapped the “Send” button of the prepared email. _Dear Dr. and Mrs. Grey, I regret the necessity of this note. I want to make you aware that I have ended my engagement to your daughter. Thank you for the kindness you have shown me over the years._ Scott snorted. Jean’s father, an Irish expatriate who taught Irish literature and history at Bard College in Annandale-on-Hudson, had treated him with cold civility since the day of their engagement, and Jean’s mother had not been any more welcoming. On the one hand, they acknowledged that their daughter’s marital prospects were severely limited. Jean was a mutant, a telepath, and telepaths were feared not only by the mundanes but by their fellow mutants. Dr. Jean Grey, M.D., Ph.D., had secrets to keep, more secrets than her parents could imagine, and realistically it was impossible for her to get involved with the bachelors she met professionally and socially. But clearly her parents hoped she could still do better than a grade school teacher earning around $18,000 a year. Scott strongly suspected Dr. and Mrs. Grey had played a large role in his neverending engagement.

He also recognized that his youth and stupidly pretty face had been a persistent source of discomfort to the Greys. _Jean’s fucktoy._ Over the years Scott had accompanied Jean to hearings, conferences, seminars, performances, exhibits, opening night galas and fundraisers, where men and women alike presumed that any man as handsome as Scott must be an idiot and treated him accordingly. Scott knew Jean had stoically endured thousands of snide comments from hundreds of people who thought she was a fool supporting a gigolo. It was one of the many reasons why he had loved her and why initially he had been unable to fathom her kamikaze run on Logan. If her parents and peers hadn’t accepted Scott, who was at least polite and presentable, how did she expect them to react to Logan?

 _But I get it, now._ Jean had no intention of ever introducing Logan to her relatives and friends and professional acquaintances. Logan’s place in her life was on his back in her bed. He was the male equivalent of a mistress. Except that Jean did not respect either Scott or Logan enough to keep Logan in an apartment in Manhattan near her job at Columbia University Medical Center. Like some dissolute eighteenth-century European aristocrat, she’d thought to lodge her fiancé and her lover in the same mansion.

Jean was too young to be having a midlife crisis, but if she suffered from some sort of post-traumatic stress from the Liberty Island mission, Scott had no sympathy. A veteran of the American foster care system, Scott considered the Liberty Island mission to be the least stressful occurrence of his life and he was completely out of patience with his fiancée. As for Logan, well, Logan’s motivation had always been easy to understand. Stealing the leader’s woman was a strategic maneuver dating back probably to the Stone Age.

 _It took me too long to figure him out._ Logan had been and continued to be unimpressed with the amenities of the Institute – food and shelter; a haven from the mundanes; the security of being among his own kind. Sixteen-year-old Scott had been awestruck and abjectly grateful when Erik Lehnsherr and Charles Xavier had scooped him off the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. But Logan had arrived at the Institute as a grown man, experienced at protecting himself and providing for his own needs, a man who intensely disliked being beholden to others.

No, Logan hadn’t stuck around because he needed sanctuary. Nor did he yearn for a family, or a sense of noble purpose. He’d stuck around for the ego boo. Boasting no qualification but possession of the X gene, he had been instantly admitted into the company of educated, informed people who behaved respectfully, spoke courteously, and listened gravely to whatever he spewed. _Conan the Barbarian does Pemberley_. While dismissing the residents of the mansion as schmucks, Logan clearly relished being treated by them with what he misinterpreted as deference. And naturally he was dazzled by Jean. Surely never in his peripatetic life had he had access to sophisticated, stylish women like Jean. Nor had Jean ever in her respectable life had access to cartoonish caricatures of masculinity like Logan.

But Logan did not love Jean. Jean did not love Logan. This Scott believed, and he was betting his future on it.

He’d persuaded Charles to attend the social workers’ conference in Washington, D.C. He had used the lull in battle to fortify his telepathic defenses and to construct, review and refine his plan of action. In the process, Scott had unflinchingly considered every possible outcome, and decided all outcomes were acceptable. Whatever the endgame, he was determined to be satisfied; more than that, he was determined to be happy.

Scott glanced at the schoolhouse clock over the door. Three in the morning. Jean and Logan had returned at one. Even Logan had seemed wearied by the surveillance mission Scott had invented to keep them out of the house all day. Scott had used Jean’s absence to gather and carry his personal belongings from the third-floor suite he shared with her to a vacant room on the fourth floor. It was that tragically easy to end their multiyear relationship. They weren’t connected by a marriage certificate or biological children, or a mortgage, or even a jointly-owned car. They didn’t have so much as a joint checking account. Looking back, Scott understood that Jean had been implementing advice from _someone_ – her father, a financial advisor, a fellow physician, a sorority sister – to refrain from mingling assets with her younger, poorer lover.

Scott commenced moving to the fourth floor after Ororo had dismissed the high schoolers for the day. He had used the central staircase rather than the elevator or service stairs and made no attempt to hide his activity. The teenagers he passed in the halls and on the staircase had stared bug-eyed and rushed off to gossip. His surrogate brother Bobby had appeared and carried a few boxes for him. _I’m done with her._ Bobby had nodded. _Whenever you wanna talk, Scott._ Yes, he’d talk with Bobby later.

Right now he needed to wake Jean and break up with her.


	2. Chapter 2

_In love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are – Kristin Hannah_

Had Jean taken Scott aside in the early summer and told him, privately and quietly, that she wanted to swap him out for Muscles the Clown, Scott would have accepted her decision, eventually.

Of course, after emerging from a state of shock and denial, he would have attempted to change her mind. He would have pleaded, reasoned, cried, bargained, raged. But eventually, he would have accepted. He was too pragmatic to do otherwise. He would have managed to reconcile himself to the tragicomedy. He might even have laughed about it, one day.

But Jean had shown him no such respect or courtesy. While still involved with Scott, physically, romantically and _telepathically_ involved with Scott, she had begun what certainly appeared to be a relationship with Logan. Maybe Jean wasn’t a powerful enough telepath to make Scott disregard the evidence of his senses. More likely she just didn’t give a damn for Scott’s reaction. The new Jean, the post-Liberty Island Jean, was as callous as Jezebel.

And yet for years Jean had been his sanctuary, the source of his strength and happiness. He couldn’t say he’d been miraculously healed by their relationship; no one was ever going to describe him as playful or joyful or optimistic; but he’d certainly become a lot less grim. The world might be going to hell for mutantkind, but on a day-to-day basis, peace and contentment pervaded Scott Summers. For years Jean had lived in his brain with his wholehearted consent. For years Jean had wandered freely through his mind and plucked his thoughts like dandelions. Until five days ago, when he had evicted her. And only through the prescience of Erik Lehnsherr did he even possess the ability to evict her.

 _She will need respite from your pubescent stupidity,_ Erik had said. _If you are determined to pursue an intimate relationship with a telepath, you must learn to contain your thoughts, or she will have no rest or peace in your company. You will either drive her away or drive her mad._

So Erik had guessed even then that one day Scott would want to reclaim his privacy.

Under the tutelage of Erik, Charles and Jean, Scott had conscientiously honed an ability to confine his thoughts to the inside of his head. He had envisioned his mind as a moated castle, equipped with portcullis, drawbridge and keep. Over the years the castle had assumed offensive as well as defensive capabilities as he added a barbican, battlements and murder holes, crenellations and machicolations. A dungeon to which he consigned his most miserable memories and most private reflections, as well as the very few secrets he still kept from Charles and Jean. He used the castle construct not only to conceal thoughts from Jean but from himself.

But for most of those years, the mind-castle lay open and undefended. The drawbridge was down, the portcullis was up and the door of the keep stood open. The sun shone, the moat sparkled and white fluffy thought-sheep grazed in green fields. Only in the last five days had Scott prepared for a siege that might last his lifetime.


	3. Chapter 3

_There is no avoiding war; it can only be postponed to the advantage of others – Niccolo Machiavelli_

He had not selected the hour of their breakup by accident. Jean would be sleeping deeply after an aggravating day. Rudely awakening her now would cause the maximum disorientation. As well, he would be dressed and on his feet; she would in lingerie and on her back. That was not a psychological advantage to dismiss. And three in the morning was both too early and too late for her to start calling people. She’d have to fume alone until sunrise and then face a stressful day on about two hours of sleep.

Scott knew Jean would not have immediately noticed he’d permanently moved out of their suite, not because she was that uncaring but because he was that compulsively neat. He kept his gear stowed out of sight in the bathroom cabinets, kept his nightstand and dresser uncluttered, promptly put away clothes and shoes and coats. Scott considered it beneath a man’s dignity to debate with a woman about décor and had given Jean free rein to furnish and decorate their living quarters as she pleased. In consequence, the suite entirely reflected her refined but feminine taste, and visitors were hard pressed to discern that Scott or indeed any man lived there.

He thought suddenly: _Has Logan ever been in here? Would she have had the nerve?_

He strode through the sitting room into the bedroom, and unceremoniously flipped on the overhead lights.

 “What –” Jean flailed, tangling herself up in sheets and blankets, as Scott walked around the room, turning on every lamp.

“Wake up.”

Finally propping herself on one elbow, Jean squinted up at him. The moment of disorientation had already passed; she had recovered her aplomb with more rapidity than he had expected. She didn’t try to communicate with him telepathically. Earlier in the week she’d bloodied her nose, metaphorically speaking, banging into the lowered portcullis of his mind-castle.

“Well, good morning, Scott, or good night, I don’t know which it is.” She affected an elaborate yawn. “What are you doing here? Are you ready for me to write a prescription?”

He had wondered if she might possibly take a remorseful tone when she saw him once again in their room. If she might welcome him back into their bed, express a desire to reconcile. Apparently not. Jean Grey, M.D., had steadily denied any wrongdoing and insisted he was delusional and paranoid. _Paranoid Personality Disorder._ Five days ago Scott had realized he was in actual danger of being locked down in the sublevels or even committed to a humans’ hospital for involuntary treatment by his cheating girlfriend.

 _Are you ready for me to write a prescription?_ With those words Jean Grey ceased to be the love of his life. She ceased even to be a person to him. She became mere chattel, a piece of stolen property to be recovered.

“Well?”

“The engagement is off.”

Jean’s eyes widened. Then she groaned loudly and let herself fall back on the mattress. “Mother of God.” Thirty years of living in New York hadn’t entirely erased that Irish lilt. “Is this another one of your paranoid fantasies? Can’t this conversation wait till morning?”

“The engagement is off. I want the ring back. Now.”

He wondered if Jean might just roll over and dismiss him by feigning sleep. But the request for the ring seemed to provoke her ire. She sat up, glaring at him through slitted green eyes, glorious mane of curly red hair falling over her freckled creamy shoulders and around the pink-tipped breasts spilling out of her flimsy silk top. She was so wantonly beautiful that he had to grit his teeth. He did not know with complete certainty how events would unfold. He might forever lose access to that glorious body.

 _All outcomes are acceptable,_ he reminded himself grimly.

“Scott, it’s the middle of the night and I’m too tired to deal with your fragile ego. But if you keep accusing me of God knows what, the engagement really will be off.”

“It _is_ off. I’m calling it off.”

“Do you have to be so melodramatic?” _Gettin’ her Irish up._ “All right, fine, let’s have a fight. Maybe we can wake up everyone on the third floor.”

“There’s nothing to fight about. The engagement is off. It’s off because I say it’s off. I don’t need your consent. This isn’t the eighteenth century where you can sue me for breach of contract. Where’s the ring?”

Wide awake now, Jean stared at him. Then, without a word, she pushed the blankets away and swung her long slim legs over the edge of the bed. She pulled the ring off her left hand and held it out. Scott walked forward, took it from her and dropped it in his pocket. Rigorous visualization exercises paid off; he had rehearsed this scene in his mind until he knew not an iota of emotion would escape him.

“Good night,” he said, and turned around. He had guessed she would want to prolong the encounter. He was correct.

“So that’s it, huh?”

He turned back. “I’m not quitting my job. I’m not moving out. So can we agree to behave like civilized people?”

Her face reddened. “No, Scott, I thought I’d behave like a harpy. Stop embarrassing yourself in front of everyone we know. Jealousy is a symptom of neurotic insecurity.”

“I’m not jealous. I’m grateful.” Scott smiled. “I decided to end this neverending engagement before the Liberty Island mission. I was just too cowardly to pull the trigger.”

“You were not thinking about this in April.”

Scott regarded her coolly. “You think you’ve always had complete access to my mind. But I never had complete access to your mind, did I. You were always holding back on me, weren’t you. Keeping a piece of yourself to yourself. It didn’t occur to you that I might be doing the same?”

Jean was silent.

“And then I brought Logan home, like a stray dog.” Scott smiled again. “And I realized he could be of use to me. I suppose it was unfair to take advantage of his weakness, and yours. But now I’ve got my honorable out.”

Jean had the gall to look dumbfounded. “What’s happened to you? You haven’t been the same since Liberty Island.”

“ _I_ haven’t been the same?” Scott turned and walked to the door.

“Why are you acting like this?”

Scott stopped in the doorway. He looked back at her. “When I was seventeen I was willing to fuck a twenty-six-year old. When I was twenty-one I was willing to propose to a thirty-year old. Now I’m twenty-seven. And I’m not willing to marry a thirty-six-year old. I want children, I mean biological children, and thirty-six is too old to get pregnant. Unless we’re talking about a threesome with a test tube.”

When Jean spoke, her voice was poisonously sweet. “Well, seeing as how I’m so old and dried up, I guess it would take a man like Logan to do the deed. Let’s see if his sperm is as unkillable as the rest of him.”

Scott softly closed the door behind him. Not until he was in the team gym in the sublevels, pulling on a pair of boxing gloves, did he allow his fury to boil over.

He pummeled a punching bag and thought: _You’ll pay for that, Jean_.


	4. Chapter 4

_A wise man gets more use from his enemies than a fool from his friends – Baltasar Gracián_

Scott nursed a plate of scrambled eggs and a morning cup of coffee in the school’s dining hall. Normally he ate breakfast and lunch with the prepubescents living on the fourth floor. With the aid of volunteers and paid helpers, about half of whom lived in, he ran the nursery, kindergarten and grade school. Ororo wrangled the teens and managed the high school. The division of work suited them. Twenty-four-year-old Ororo possessed the power of a snake charmer over her surly charges. Scott, who had infinite patience with screaming babies, tantruming toddlers and whiny ten-year-olds, had little tolerance for teens. There were exceptions, of course. Bobby, Kitty, Piotr, Hisako. And maniacal Jubilee, who could always wring a laugh out of him. But Scott had mostly written off the rest of the teens. Not that he wished them ill. He wished to see them positioned as best as possible for a successful and productive life, and then ushered out the door. But the small children – needy, loving, impressionable, pliable – they were his future X-Men. In ten years he’d have his homegrown army, soldiers who called him Daddy, for the inevitable war with humanity. _You were too impatient, Erik, and you showed your hand too soon._

Scott stolidly cleaned his plate and drained his coffee cup. He felt as if he were performing on a stage with spotlights aimed at him. Charles and Ororo were inbound, Jean and Logan were absent. Maybe they were celebrating together. Maybe Jean had slept in. Scott had simply skipped sleeping. It was as good an opportunity as any to practice operating under field conditions.

The teenagers were strangely subdued. Perhaps they understood that today was not the day to test Mr. Summers. They gawked at him and whispered amongst themselves. Bobby sat with his peers – Scott and Bobby had agreed that until Bobby graduated they would show no public preference for each other’s company. But Bobby cast occasional troubled looks at him. He wished he could assuage Bobby’s concerns. He wished he could take Ororo into his confidence. But he knew very well he was the only resident of the mansion with a black belt in telepathic blocking. If he gave Ororo and Bobby an explanation, they’d rebroadcast it loudly enough to wake up telepaths in Australia.

Rogue sat between Bobby and John. Obviously depressed, she picked at her breakfast and responded listlessly as her two admirers jockeyed for her attention. Now and then she glared at Scott. No doubt she considered it his duty to stand between her boyfriend and his girlfriend, and like a bad soldier he’d just abdicated his post.

Scott didn’t understand why Rogue persisted in thinking of Logan as her boyfriend. It was essential to his plan that she do so, but he didn’t understand. Neither Scott nor anyone else had ever seen Logan behave flirtatiously or romantically towards Rogue. Scott also failed to understand why Logan had been willing to die for the girl after an acquaintance of about ten days, but he surmised Rogue had triggered a memory of a sister or daughter. That Logan cared deeply for Rogue was indisputable, but he saved his inappropriate behavior and salacious remarks for Jean Grey.

The pity of it all was that Logan would have been a valuable addition to the team. Not because he was a skilled fighter; he wasn’t. Logan was a bar brawler who won fights because he had a healing factor, an adamantium-reinforced skeleton and adamantium claws. He won because he couldn’t lose.

But the man’s strength and endurance were phenomenal. He could lift, carry, run, jump, climb – he seemed inexhaustible, possessed of virtually unlimited aerobic and anaerobic capacity. Logan was a machine, and Scott wanted to put that machine to work for the new world order.

And as a matter of fact, Scott was pragmatic enough, strategic enough, to tolerate a romantic rival on the team, provided that rival added sufficient value. Had Logan genuinely fancied himself in love with Jean, had Logan genuinely lusted after her body, Scott would have understood, pitied and forgiven. He might even have shared. _Pragmatic enough for you?_ But Logan didn’t want Scott’s woman. He wanted Scott’s life. He wanted to erase and replace Scott. He wanted to _be_ Scott. Scott knew he wasn’t in a battle for a woman. He was in a battle for his own continued existence.


	5. Chapter 5

_All war is deception – Sun Tzu_

Scott was not surprised to be summoned to Charles’ study in the afternoon. The message was delivered by Charles’ executive assistant over the house phone, presumably after Charles had recovered from bouncing like a basketball off the lowered portcullis of the mind-castle.   

He walked in and seated himself on the sofa opposite Charles’ desk. He didn’t welcome Charles home, ask about the conference, or engage in other pleasantries. And the days of kneeling next to the wheelchair for an embrace were over.

Charles sighed and motored around his desk. He said nothing. _Cop trick. Lawyer trick._ Scott maintained his own silence in addition to a politely attentive facial expression.

At length Charles said, “I am sorry your engagement has ended. I am a bit confused as to when it ended and who ended it, but those details are irrelevant.”

Scott nodded.

“I’m more concerned about why it’s ended.”

“You know why.”  

“You’ve invested many years in this relationship.”

“I’ve invested six years in an engagement. That’s five years too many.”

“You’ve lived as husband and wife the entire time. And now, suddenly, the lack of a marriage certificate distresses you?”

“The lack of commitment distresses me.” Scott rubbed his jaw. “Charles, as you are perfectly well aware, I’m done with Jean because she’s cheating on me.”

“Oh, Scott, where’s your evidence?”

“I need _evidence?_ I need photos? I need to catch her in the act? Actually, no, Charles, I don’t need _evidence_. Jean acts like an unfaithful woman and that’s enough. I don’t have to put up with even the appearance of infidelity. I have plenty of other options for female companionship.”

“You’re telepathically connected. How could she deceive you?”

“You’re kidding, right? You think I’m still that naïve? I know that I know whatever Jean wants me to know. And we’re not connected that way anymore. You and Jean have been treating my brain like a public library where you can read all the books for free. That stops now.” 

“You have always been entitled to set boundaries.” Charles sighed. “Jean tells me she ended her relationship with you because she can no longer cope with your jealousy and accusations of infidelity.”

“Then we’ve reached a satisfactory conclusion, haven’t we. I’m free of my cheating girlfriend, she’s free of her jealous boyfriend. Everybody’s happy.”

“I would be relieved to think that a ten-year relationship could be ended so neatly.” Charles hesitated. “But Jean has also expressed concern for the well-being of our students.”

“I know that most of these children have been victimized by dysfunctional adults. I would never do anything to re-traumatize them.” Scott did not conceal his irritation. “There won’t be any white-trash brawling in the mansion, Charles. No furniture will be thrown, no hair will be pulled. I completely trust Jean’s professionalism, and she should know that she can trust mine.”

“That is not precisely her concern.” Charles hesitated again. “She feels that the Liberty Island mission may have… destabilized you.”

“What? What does that mean in English?”

“She fears your health is deteriorating.”

“She gave me a clean bill of health three days after the mission.”  

“Your mental health.”

_Erik, if I spend the rest of my life apologizing to you, it won’t be enough._

“Combat stress? Does Jean think I’m going to go all psycho Vietnam vet on the kids? Jesus, she needs to step away from the television.”

“Your annoyance is perfectly understandable.”

“And I don’t think bitter ex-girlfriends are allowed to diagnose their ex-boyfriends. I’m pretty sure there’s a regulation about that. I could always check with the medical board.” _Hi, I’m the mutant terrorist who defiled the Statue of Liberty and I want to lodge a complaint against my doctor._

“Naturally her judgement cannot be considered impartial.” 

“Charles, you’re the psychiatrist, not Jean. So do you genuinely believe I’m a threat to the students?” _Not the cage fighter living down the hall? Me?_

“No, I do not. If I did, you would already be out of this house.” Charles leaned forward, spoke gently. “Scott, I don’t need to be a psychiatrist to diagnose a broken heart. Ending any long-term relationship is traumatic, and ending a long-term telepathic relationship is excruciating. And as you know, I speak from personal experience.”

Scott knew his heart wasn’t broken, but he was mollified by Charles’ conciliatory manner. He relaxed back into the sofa cushions.

“Perhaps it’s the right time for you to try a prescription medication. I know you’re suffering, and there’s no need to tough it out. You wouldn’t refuse medication after a root canal or an appendectomy.”

_Erik, if I spend three lifetimes apologizing to you, it won’t be enough._

Scott got up and walked to the window. He assumed a pensive expression.

“Actually, Charles, I do want to discuss Liberty Island with you. It’s astute of Jean to notice that I’ve been preoccupied since the mission, although she’s drawing the wrong conclusion.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve reviewed my performance several times and frankly it’s beyond unsatisfactory. I showed exceptionally poor judgement.” Scott exhaled gustily. “I’ve had a hard time coming to grips with that. It was a blow to my pride. So maybe I did become a bit difficult to live with.”

“I don’t understand. The mission was a success, Scott.”

“By the grace of God. Charles, we almost killed every politician at the World Leaders Summit to save Rogue. And saving Rogue was not the mission. The mission was to save every politician at the World Leaders Summit.”

_I let that WrestleMania clown pervert the mission. Maybe I do need medicating._

“Scott, sacrificing a child would be a difficult ethical decision for any leader.”

“I disagree. The greater good was obvious. I should have blown the torch off the statue as soon as I set foot on Liberty Island. Instead I led us into a battle that wasn’t necessary. A battle that dragged on and on until we were seconds from catastrophic failure. I shouldn’t lead the team anymore, Charles. Logan’s right. I’m immature and inexperienced. He’s your new team leader.”

It took all Scott’s self-control not to burst out laughing at the gobsmacked expression on Charles’ face. Scott maintained his own attitude of earnest composure.

“Scott, this is a… a drastic… _Logan?”_

Scott walked back to the sofa and sat. He leaned forward, clasped his hands. “Yes. He’s a natural leader and he’s got real combat experience.”

“He does? How would you know? How would _he_ know?”

“It’s obvious from his performance. And if he’s lived as long as we think he has, he may be a veteran of every major twentieth-century conflict. World War I and World War II, of course. He thinks he’s Canadian, so maybe he was involved in the British incursions of Ireland, Turkey and Afghanistan. It’s possible he fought in Vietnam – Canada was an American ally in Vietnam.” Scott did not add that Logan’s disposition precluded any significant military rank or achievement. _Probably died by firing squad at least once._

“I had no idea you thought so highly of Logan. Or so poorly of yourself.”

“No one should die because of my pride.”

“Wouldn’t Storm be your natural successor? She is the B Team leader, after all.”

“The B Team doesn’t deploy. Charles, I have no doubts about Storm’s leadership ability, but she doesn’t have any more combat experience than I do.”

Scott wondered if Logan would accept the appointment. After all, it was lots of fun to be the juvenile delinquent in the back row disrupting the class. It was no fun at all to be the teacher. But Scott was counting on Logan’s arrogance and ambition. He knew Logan, too, had a campaign plan:

 _Phase I: Steal Scott’s property. Phase II: Steal Scott’s woman. Phase III: Steal Scott’s position on the team.  Phase IV: Steal Scott’s position in the school._ And if Scott was _still_ hanging around, kill him off.

“Scott, this is a lot to process. I had no idea our conversation would take this turn. I’ll have to discuss this with the other trustees, of course. I can’t make a unilateral decision.”

Scott rolled his eyes behind the ruby-quartz lenses. _Let it go. Shut up, get out, let it go…._ “Charles, you are the master of unilateral decisions.”

“Excuse me?”

“You added Logan to the team just before we left for Liberty Island. You didn’t discuss that in advance with your fellow trustees.” _Or with me._

“It proved to be the right decision, did it not?”

“Nor did you consult anyone before you gave Logan the grand tour of the sublevels, including the Cerebro room and the hangar.” Scott spread his hands and shook his head in remembered stupefaction. “Charles, you spilled your guts to a stranger. You connected the team to this school. You connected our names to the team. We have safety protocols for a reason, Charles. We’re _criminals_. Did it never occur to you that Logan might have been an FBI informant? A plant?”

“Scott, you must realize I would never put you or this school in danger. I would not have taken Logan into my confidence unless I had been certain of his integrity.”

“And how did you achieve certainty? Don’t tell me you read his mind, because you can’t. I know you can’t. Neither can Jean. You can’t read Erik’s mind when he’s wearing that metal helmet of his. Well, Logan’s head _is_ a metal helmet. His skull is completely reinforced with adamantium. You can’t know –”

He stopped mid-sentence. Charles eyed him warily.

“Oh, my God,” Scott breathed. “I’m an idiot. It’s so obvious. You know Logan. You know him and you _owe_ him.”

“Scott, now you’re simply fantasizing.”

“When did you meet him, Charles? What kind of hold does he have over you? Is he blackmailing you?” Scott smacked himself in the head. “ _Amnesia_. I’m an _idiot_. Amnesia only happens in soap operas. Logan remembers you just fine, doesn’t he. And you can’t reach into his metal head and erase the memory. You can’t even dispose of him the old-fashioned way and kill him.”

“Oh, Scott. Listen to yourself.”

“That’s why you sent us to pick him up.” Scott lunged to his feet. “That’s why you moved him into the house. Why you give him everything he wants. Up to and including _my wife_.”

“Scott, please. Calm yourself.” Charles spoke soothingly. “Your suppositions are not valid. They have no basis in reality.”

“He’s been in this house before. Why didn’t I notice that? He knows this house and… I think he knows _me_.”

A wave of dizziness swamped Scott and a peculiar low-pitched tone hummed in his ears, like machinery, or traffic, or rushing water. Grabbing the sofa arm for support, he remembered he’d been awake for thirty-four hours.

 _Logan’s been an asshole to me from the moment we met._ His disgust and contempt for Scott had been instantaneous and unaccountable. Could Logan possibly be one of the many men he had serviced in the bad old days? Fourteen-year-old Scott had run away from a “group home” in Nebraska and landed at the bus terminal in the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood of New York City. It had not taken long for the Westies to scoop him up and put him to work.

Scott thought suddenly, _It’s not blackmail._ _Charles loves Logan like a son. Maybe Logan is his son. Logan’s back in his life and now he’s done with me. Like people who wish they could give back the adopted kid after the wife gets pregnant._

“Scott, I’m beginning to understand and share Jean’s concern. I’m going to have to insist you accept a tranquilizer.”

“If you or Jean drug me, you had better be prepared to keep me drugged for the next fifty years.” Scott willed himself to stay upright, to walk to the door of the study without stumbling or falling. “I know I’m on to something. I don’t know exactly what. But I will figure it out.”


	6. Chapter 6

_For now we see through a glass, darkly – 1 Corinthians 13:12_

He awoke with a start in his monk’s cell of a room on the fourth floor. Rolling over, he stared at the analog clock on his nightstand. Nine o’clock. Nine o’clock at night, as no light penetrated the window. His stomach told him he’d skipped dinner and gone straight to his room for a nap after welcoming Charles back to the mansion.

Scott removed his sleep goggles, rubbed his temples and groped for his glasses. For a moment he clung to a rapidly dissolving nightmare of fire and flood, a roaring sound like a waterfall or a wildfire. But the nightmare trickled out of his grasp like sand.

Well, dinner would have been as uncomfortable an affair as breakfast, but he still regretted sleeping through it. It was the one meal of the day that his young charges ate in the mansion’s dining hall with the older students and adults. None of his kiddies enjoyed the custom as it was also the one meal of the day that Mr. Scott required them to park their butts in chairs, use their indoor voices, and employ their embryonic table manners. The small children were also awed and intimidated by the older students who had “powers.” Scott believed in segregating the children by age for their safety while Charles and Ororo believed there was a need to socially integrate all the mansion’s residents. Thus, the daily dinner ritual.

Scott rolled out of bed and noted that at least he’d changed into sweats before crashing. Oh, well, it had been an interesting experiment. Now he knew he could go about thirty-four hours without sleep. He still felt quite tired. And why not, it had been a melodramatic thirty-four hours. _Food, then back to bed._

He stuck his feet into sneakers, then stepped out of his room into the hall. Through the archway into the dimly-lit day room he glimpsed one of his staffers. “Mrs. Patel?” he called softly.

A fifty-something woman padded out, her slippers making no noise on the hardwood floor. She didn’t say _What the heck are you doing sleeping on the fourth floor?_ which meant every employee and volunteer at the Institute knew the story. What she said in her musically lilting voice was, “Good evening, Mr. Summers. I did not expect you to wake before morning. You looked very tired when you came upstairs.”

“Yeah, I was. I don’t even remember how I got to my room. Did our kids behave for you at dinner?”

“Oh, yes, they were fine.”

Like almost every Institute employee and volunteer, Mrs. Patel was a gamma-class mutant, which, according to the Pentagon, meant she was a mutant with no evident powers. _Yes, I know I should not let our enemies define us_. He knew dinner duty made her nervous. Dining with alpha- and beta-class mutants between the ages of thirteen and eighteen made _everyone_ nervous. Every meal that passed without someone freezing, burning, flooding, disintegrating or blowing up the dining hall was a minor triumph. Mrs. Patel wasn’t actually any safer outside the dining hall, but in a shining example of cognitive dissonance, she was comfortable supervising the prepubescents on the fourth floor while the teens rampaged like rhinos on the second and ground floors.

“Remind me who’s on duty with you tonight?”

“Mrs. Jackson, and Mrs. Hernandez is in the nursery.”

He nodded. The babies seldom remained at the Institute for more than a few months. It was hearteningly easy to find adoptive parents for the youngest children, even those who were obvious mutants. The Institute was licensed by the state to operate as an adoption agency and as a foster care placement agency, in addition to its federal charter to operate as a private juvenile detention center for mutant offenders. Those operations, plus his political advocacy, kept Charles and his personal staff thoroughly occupied. It was Ororo and Scott who managed the day-to-day operations of their alma mater, the school Charles and Erik had founded.

“You have a good night, Mrs. Patel.” He felt awkward standing in front of her without his armor – the oxford business shirt and tie, the dress slacks and suit jacket. “I’m going to get something to eat and then go back to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She smiled and nodded. Mrs. Patel did not offer condolences on his failed relationship, perhaps because she was already plotting his marriage to a granddaughter. Mrs. Patel had some fine-looking granddaughters but he didn’t think any of them would like to marry one of the FBI’s Most Wanted. He smiled in return and walked down the hallway until he located the door to the service stairs.

The fourth floor had once been the servants’ quarters and was connected by a maze of hidden staircases to the other floors and even to a tunnel exiting to an outbuilding. Xavier family legend had it that the mansion had been a station on the Underground Railroad and the tunnel seemed to corroborate that story. Scott followed the service stairs all the way down to what had once been the servants’ hall in the basement and was now the staff kitchenette and unofficial clubhouse for the mansion’s many employees and volunteers. Scott and Ororo still called it the servants’ hall.

Ororo was there, feet up, sipping tea and watching a Bollywood movie on the TV/VCR. Ororo and indeed almost every female in the Institute was hooked on Bollywood. Scott blamed Mrs. Patel, the purveyor of bootleg videotapes, who, in a rational world, would have been convicted for dealing in mind-altering substances. Scott had once watched a Bollywood movie with Ororo and had found it to be a psychedelic experience akin to mainlining an entire season of _All My Children_ in three hours.

She looked up as he pushed open the door and walked into the room. A worried frown immediately curved her mouth and was just as quickly replaced by a grin.

Scott pointed to the screen. “I’m scared to ask, but, what’s happening?”

“The dead wife’s back as a ghost.”

“Is that all?” He stooped and smooched her cheek. “No international spies? Arranged marriages? Twins separated at birth?”

“Well, sure, but that was in the first ten minutes.” She jerked her thumb at the fridge. “I didn’t know if you were going to sleep right through till morning, but I saved a plate of dinner for you.”

“Thanks.” Scott smiled affectionately at her. Not for the first time he thought, _Why couldn’t you fall in love with me, Ro?_

Thank Christ Logan hadn’t ensnared Ororo. He could have had her if he’d wanted her – he was the sort of bully to whom she was unfortunately attracted – but he hadn’t wanted her, because Ororo wasn’t Scott’s wife. Scott honestly believed Logan didn’t derive any pleasure at all from women’s bodies; that he never bothered with a woman unless she belonged to a rival. This belief was in fact critical to Scott’s campaign plan.

He felt Ororo’s eyes on him as he pulled the plate out of the fridge and stuck it in the microwave. She said, “So do you want to hear about the conference? Long story short, it was a frustrating waste of time.”

“No, Charles filled me in.” He carried the plate to the table and began eating hungrily. “And tried to talk me out of breaking up with Jean.”

“He feels guilty. As he should.”

Scott swallowed a mouthful of mashed potatoes and paused.

“What?”

“There’s something I want to ask you about Charles.”

“Shoot.”

Scott hesitated. Finally, he laughed. “I forgot what I wanted to say,” he confessed.

“It’s hell getting’ old, bro.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Scott forked a piece of meatloaf into his mouth.

Ororo banged her mug down on the tabletop. “And just so you know, I’m mad at you for unleashing the drama while I was away. The shit that goes on in this house! It’s better than Bollywood.”

“Sorry to deprive you.”

“Ok, seriously, how are you doing?”

“I’m ok.” He smiled. “I’m kind of embarrassed about phoning you last night and getting all weepy on your shoulder.”

“And I completely failed to get it on tape, dammit. Were you actually drunk?”

“No, I was sober. Which makes it even more embarrassing. And you’re right, I should have figured out a long time ago that it was over.”

Ororo shrugged. “Any woman who keeps putting off her wedding day for six years… well, that was a great big fuckin’ clue.”

“Yeah, somehow I managed to miss that.” 

She leaned forward. All facetiousness vanished. “Scott, Charles told me that you want to resign the team leadership. That you’re recommending _Logan_ as team leader. Is this true, or am I having some kind of psychotic break with reality?”

Scott put down his fork. “It’s true. I recommended Logan based on his extensive combat experience.”

“ _What_ freakin’ combat experience? You mean beating up on people in bars for money?”

“As I said to Charles, Logan is probably a veteran of every major war of the twentieth century.”  

“That’s like saying John Wayne was a veteran of every war.”

“No. Logan’s the real deal. I’m the fake. Everything I know about military operations, I’ve taught myself out of books. He’s lived it.”

“Then I guess I’m a fake too. And we’ve managed to fake our way through plenty of missions even if we aren’t the Navy SEALs. You haven’t forgotten the Brooklyn mission, have you?”

“No.” It would be a cold day in Hell’s Kitchen when he forgot the Brooklyn mission.

“Scott, for God’s sake, why are you having this existential crisis?” Ororo threw her hands up. “You haven’t been the same since Liberty Island.”

“I’m not the one who changed.”

Scott picked up his fork again. He finished the meatloaf and green beans and used a hunk of bread to sop up the potatoes and gravy. Scott always cleaned his plate like a dog. Each meal helped satisfy the energy demands of his mutation but also temporarily quelled his neverending fear of hunger. Years at the Institute had not erased the visceral memory of semi-starvation in detention centers, foster homes, group homes, and squats in abandoned properties.

Ororo said nothing while he finished eating, recalling, probably, how difficult it was for him to concentrate on anything other than the food in front of him until it was gone. She spoke again when he got up to wash his plate, cup and utensils.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” she said. “Something about Liberty Island.”

“ _Which_ something?”

“The energy wave.”

“What about it?”

“It rolled right over us, that’s what.”

Scott shrugged. “Yes, but it didn’t affect us. We know it only affected humans.”

“Well, we didn’t turn into puddles of goo, but I think it affected us.”

Scott carefully considered Ororo’s words as he hung up the dishtowel. Sitting down again at the table, he said slowly, “Jean’s gotten stronger. Her telekinesis. She’s having some difficulty controlling it. I don’t mean that anyone’s in danger. But, yeah. She’s gotten stronger.” Stronger and meaner and nastier. More callous, more careless, more aggressive, in and out of bed.

He thought suddenly: _I turned away from her. That’s why she turned to Logan_. 

“I don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

Scott said distractedly, “What?”

“Jean getting stronger after Liberty Island. What about you?

“No, I haven’t changed at all. What about you? I assume something happened to get you thinking about this.”

“Yes.” She hesitated again, then got up. Scott watched curiously as she turned on the water taps and took a dry, droopy houseplant off the ledge over the sink. Holding the pot in one hand, she held her other hand over the plant. Nearly a minute passed in complete silence.

Then Scott saw what looked like fog form under the palm of Ororo’s hand. Misty precipitation enveloped the plant.

Ororo spoke breathlessly, as if she were trying to speak and jog at the same time. “You’re always raggin’ on me that I can whip up a hurricane but I can’t water a houseplant. Well, I can, now. Water a houseplant.”

Surprised, impressed, Scott got up and took the pot from her. He touched the damp leaves of the plant, stirred the moist soil around with the tip of a finger. “Ro, this is tremendous. It’s an exponential increase in your fine control. Why didn’t you say anything before?”

Ororo inhaled. “I wanted to be sure it wasn’t a fluke. That I could do it consistently.” She took the pot from him and gave it a good soaking under the cold water tap, then put it back on the ledge and shut off the water.

Scott leaned against the sink. “Have you noticed anything different about Rogue?”

“Well, it’s not like we really knew her before Liberty Island, but her condition seems to be unchanged. And Logan wouldn’t change, of course.” Ororo shrugged. “The two of them are connected now, in a way, like a blood transfusion or organ transplant, so maybe Rogue didn’t change because Logan doesn’t change. And Erik, well, if his powers have changed, how would he even know it, inside that plastic cube.”

“I think this is worth discussing with Hank the next time he visits. I know he’s going to give us the speech about correlation not equaling causation, but it’s certainly worth discussing.” Scott hesitated. “Charles and Jean are going to hear you thinking about this.”

“Well, I don’t know how to turn down the volume on my thinking, so yeah, probably. But there’s no reason to keep it a secret.”

“I suppose not.” Scott suddenly yawned. “OK, I’m going back to bed now.” He caught hold of her hand and squeezed it. “Thanks for dinner and the moral support.”

Ororo looked up at him. She started to speak, hesitated.

“What?”

“Scott… you don’t have to put up with this shit. This shit with Logan and Jean.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Warren’s talked about expanding the operation to the West Coast. Maybe this is the time.”

Scott looked down at her in surprise. “That’s a drastic solution.”

“Well, think about it.” She pushed him gently towards the door to the service stairs.

Scott thought about it as he eschewed the elevators and trudged all the way up to the fourth floor. Was this the solution to his Logan problem? He could just… leave. _Retreating is advancing the fight in a different direction._ Move to a new city. Start a new school, form a new team, find a new wife.

As he fell into bed he thought again, uncomfortably, _I turned away from Jean and she turned to Logan._

And he thought: _Maybe Jean just got fed up with me. Got tired of taking care of me. Catering to all my issues. Maybe she felt more like my nurse than my wife._

He compartmentalized the thoughts in the dungeon of the mind-castle.


	7. Chapter 7

_There are armies which must not be attacked – Sun Tzu_

In the weeks and months that followed the Liberty Island mission, Scott had haltingly tried to express his fear that Jean’s abilities were expanding at a dizzying rate and her heart and soul were diminishing in inverse proportion. Charles had reacted dismissively. Scott heard the message under the polite phrases: _You’re jealous, childish, insecure, sexist_.

Post-Liberty Island, at the age of thirty-six, Jean had blossomed as if she were undergoing a second puberty. Despite the impressive academic and professional credentials, the exquisite good taste, the refinement, the sophistication, she had always struggled with low self-esteem. _I feel like a fraud,_ she would say, walking into a seminar or panel or conference, and bewildered Scott, far less credentialed and far cockier, never knew how to reassure her. Had she been the stereotypical smart ugly girl, bullied all her life over her looks, Scott might have understood her tentativeness. But Jean had been a pretty child and was a striking woman, green-eyed, flame-haired, model-tall and model-skinny, the sort of woman who could have made a lucrative career out of walking down runways or marrying rich old men. Jean seemed to have it all, brains, looks and a younger lover, but her lack of self-confidence had caused the Xavier Foundation Board of Trustees to seriously debate sending her to the Senate hearings as mutantkind’s champion, even though she was probably the most qualified person in America to challenge U.S. Senator Robert Kelly.

But after Liberty Island Jean had embraced her intellectual stature, her authority, her consequence. Although the world believed she and Xavier were not mutants but merely a pair of meddling do-gooders, she was nevertheless a regularly interviewed and quoted expert now; and the new Jean expressed her opinions confidently and defended them decisively when challenged by her peers or the circus performers of the news media.

She also fully embraced her potential as an alpha-class mutant and stepped assertively into a combat role on the team. Pre-Liberty Island, Jean had accompanied Cyclops and Storm on missions, but in the role of a medic, a noncombatant. Her telekinesis was too undeveloped to be relied upon in battle. Occasionally she had put her telepathy to work for the team, acted as their forward scout, but input from multiple criminals and multiple victims plainly stressed her. But post-Liberty Island, Jean threw herself into developing her telekinesis and began seriously training in military tactics. She also took a sudden interest in operating the Blackbird. Scott and Ororo had spent years learning to fly and their training had cost tens of thousands of other people’s dollars; training on piston-engine aircraft and turboprops before graduating to jets, ostensibly to fly Learjets for Worthington Industries. Scott had spent an additional year and more thousands of dollars learning to fix jet airframes and powerplants. And… Jean had simply delved into Scott’s mind and in moments downloaded everything he knew about flying, maintaining and repairing a jet. In the dungeon of his mind-castle he had thought _No wonder everyone hates telepaths_. And he had also wondered, and loathed himself for wondering, if this was how Jean had gotten through medical school and earned her Ph.D.

The weeks had rolled by, spring turned to summer, and Jean’s soaring confidence morphed into arrogance and recklessness. Scott didn’t pretend to be the resident psychiatrist but it seemed to him that she acted as if she were in the manic phase of bipolar disorder. She slept less, worked frenetically, spoke superciliously, and to Scott’s stupefaction, responded to Logan’s sexual advances as if she were an unattached woman.

Being a young man, Scott had thought even more sex with Jean would solve the Logan problem. He and Jean enjoyed a vigorously healthy sexual relationship; well, an _un_ healthy sexual relationship, really; he was pretty sure it wasn’t smart to fuse their minds as tightly as their bodies. But it was the telepathic connection with Jean that had enabled him to feel safe enough to experience sexual pleasure, something his teenaged self had not even believed existed; and as the years passed Jean had stoked his awakened sexual appetite with telepathic and telekinetic stimulation until he was hooked on Jean like a heroin addict. Servicing Jean several times a day would not have displeased him at all, but they did have lives, so several times a week had to suffice.

Now, however, Scott sought out Jean daily. He expected difficulty getting her attention or time; it seemed to him that Jean’s interest in sex had waned over the previous year and perhaps for this reason she had allowed her career to expand like noxious foam into their scarce free hours. He had resigned himself to it, attributed it to her age, the Big Four-Oh hovering on the horizon; now he wondered grimly if really Jean’s interest in _him_ was waning.

But the post-Liberty Island Jean responded to his advances with gratifying alacrity, all but devouring him. She penetrated his brain as he penetrated her body, seized control of their lovemaking, used her telekinesis and telepathy to subdue and manipulate him. Bewildered, Scott gave himself up to her, submitted to her aggression, allowed her to ravish his mind and body, all the while understanding uneasily that he wasn’t _allowing_.

And yet, no matter how he satisfied her, satiated her, she resumed her… _flirtation_ with Logan. He called it _flirtation_ because he did not know what else to call the eye-fucking, the overly-intimate conversations, the salacious laughter, the suggestive remarks, the faux-casual touches. _Flirtation_ was a stupid teenagerish word to describe the slow-motion infidelity happening in front of his face. But he had no better word. Jean _flirted_ with Logan by day and drained Scott dry by night and seemed to suffer no pangs of conscience, no cognitive dissidence. It seemed she had achieved the pinnacle of feminism; she could cheat just as remorselessly as a man.

And still Scott did not end their relationship. Still he thought that if he just gave Jean enough of whatever she wanted, the Logan problem would be solved. It was uncomfortable and counter-intuitive to slavishly capitulate to her, much as he had done as a teenaged boy; he was a grown man now and a generous lover, but the new Jean didn’t want to be given, she wanted to _take_. And he did not resist; she seemed as spoilt as a child but he catered to her willfulness.

As the weeks passed her interest in physical satisfaction decreased while her demands for psychic satisfaction increased. He thought she must have traversed every nook and cranny of his brain, crawling over his cortex like a fly, hungry and searching, searching for what, he didn’t know, and he became tenser and more fearful as her telepathic incursions got sloppier. One night he did resist, resisted and tried to push her out, tried and failed, and his fear gave way to horror as he realized this Jean was oblivious to his wishes and his safety. She was as emotionless and pitiless as a bird of prey and as ravenous, seeking sustenance, and would not be deterred. Seeking, and suddenly _finding_.

 _Pure concussive force can’t exist in an Einsteinian universe,_ Hank had said.

_Charles says we break the laws of physics every day._

_Charles is talking nonsense. You cannot be generating pure concussive force. You are drawing it from somewhere else._

The Jean-Thing had found the portal in his brain, the existence of which Hank had theorized, the portal to the non-Einsteinian universe. The damaged portal, permanently wedged open and allowing pure concussive force to pour from his eyes every moment. The Jean-Thing reacted as if it had found the Fountain of Youth and dived in.

Scott summoned every minute of training, every ounce of willpower and every kilocalorie of energy he possessed, and surfaced to consciousness.

He found himself on his back in bed with Jean astride him, riding his erection, red mane writhing around her head like Medusa’s snakes. She looked like a valkyrie, she looked crazed, and beyond Jean he saw every piece of furniture in the room floating, chairs, dressers, her vanity, every knickknack and framed photo, shoes and clothes, and he realized the bed beneath them was floating too.

He put his hands on her waist and lifted her up and off his erection and flung her down onto the other side of the wide mattress. Immediately his back bowed in a painful orgasm while everything floating around them smashed and crashed to the floor and the bed fell with a boom.

In the ringing silence, in the aftermath of the most unwelcome orgasm of his life, Scott twisted onto his side and panted and stared at Jean.

The valkyrie had vanished. Jean looked like a naughty little girl who had spilled flour and sugar all over the kitchen. She was sitting bolt upright, eyes wide, taking in the mess, and the hands clapped over her mouth did not prevent horrified giggles from escaping. “Oh my God,” she whispered, “oh my God, I think everybody in the house heard that.”

He stared at her, and she was his Jean again, full-body blush turning her skin almost as red as her hair, his dear sweet Jean, torn between hilarity and mortification and terrifyingly oblivious to the fact that she had almost lobotomized him.

Later he would say: _You lost control. Not just the telekinesis_. Still later he would say: _You almost turned me into a vegetable_. Much later he would say: _I don’t feel safe around you anymore._

He had turned away from Jean, and Jean had turned to Logan.


	8. Chapter 8

_War teaches us not to love our enemies but to hate our allies – Walter Lionel George_

Scott thought the mission at the Red Hook Container Terminal in Brooklyn was the most complicated mission the X-Men had ever undertaken. In an unbiased world Charles would have simply shared his initial suspicions and meager evidence with the police. But the thugs in blue were as complicit as the seamen, longshoremen, stevedores and warehousemen working the blighted Brooklyn waterfront. Charles had feared the puppet master controlling the operation would not only bury the evidence but the victims. Sex trafficking was big money, but the sex trafficking of obvious mutants was really big money, and the unionized minions pocketed their bribes and felt no guilt. They equated the sexual abuse of mutants with bestiality; disgusting, to be sure, but it wasn’t like _people_ were getting hurt.

Scott had called in favors and issued markers like a Las Vegas casino, cajoled allies and summoned auxiliary team members. The mission had been preceded by an intense week of research, interviews, surveillance, burglary, undercover work, mapping, planning and rehearsing. Scott had deliberately brought in the nondeployable B Team to help collect, assemble and analyze the information, and create the operations order; it had been a sobering and enlightening experience for the teens. And then, finally, the assault, shutting down the mutant child pornography operation, liberating mutants destined for sale overseas. They’d even secured hard drives and transaction records that might help recover other victims or at least provide closure.

Scott had dialed open the aperture of his visor to lethal force for the assault, and he and Storm concluded the operation by annihilating the entire Red Hook marine terminal. Some of the human rats had still escaped to tell the tale, but the official story was that freak tornadoes spawned by a severe thunderstorm had caused the spectacular destruction.

Scott had not thought he had anything left to prove to himself or others after the Brooklyn mission. But then Erik Lehnsherr – _our crazy uncle in the attic,_ as Ororo referred to him – decided he had invented the solution to mutantkind’s problems.

If Erik’s machine had worked as advertised, Scott would not have done a damn thing to shut it down. Oh, he would have made a great show of working desperately to thwart Erik, but would have conveniently failed. Rogue’s life would have been a small price to pay for securing the existence of the species. Unfortunately, Erik’s machine _didn’t_ work, which catapulted the X-Men into a no-notice mission, the Liberty Island mission, their Super Bowl, their World Cup, a mission played out before an international audience for the highest possible stakes.

Sebastian Shaw and the other Xavier Foundation trustees had expressed tremendous satisfaction with the mission’s outcome. Liberty Island had justified their foresight, their commitment, their tremendous financial investment, and oh yes, their criminal support of mutant terrorism. Only Warren Worthington had been astute enough to perceive that which had eluded the others. After public congratulations, Warren had privately given Scott the tongue-lashing he knew he deserved: _“The mission was to prevent a worldwide mutant genocide, which is exactly what would have happened if Erik had succeeded in killing every politician at the World Leaders Summit. And who knows how far that energy wave might have spread. Millions of people in New York and New Jersey might have died too. And you put the mission in peril dicking around trying to save a maiden in distress. I didn’t think you were that kind of romantic slob, Scott.”_

But there was dignity in accepting blame for bad decisions. In castigating Scott, Warren had accorded him the respect due a decision-maker. And Scott knew he hadn’t been the decision-maker on Liberty Island.

Warren Worthington didn’t wait until after Labor Day to visit the mansion. He showed up at the mansion the day after Scott’s conversation with Charles.

Warren was a massive man enfolded by massive white wings, and the blond hair and blue eyes did nothing to soften the terrifying impression he made. He stood in the archway of the fourth-floor dayroom, legs spread, arms folded, granite-faced. _Houston, Michael the Archangel has landed._ He wore cleverly seamed suits instead of chainmail and carried a checkbook instead of a flaming sword, but Scott had no problem envisioning him slaughtering demonic hordes or recalcitrant employees.

It was the children who alerted Scott to Warren’s presence. Those who had met him before ran to him shrieking in excitement. Those who hadn’t met him couldn’t resist edging closer anyway, fascinated by the wings. The harsh lines of Warren’s face softened as he knelt to accept hugs, listen to childish babble, admire artwork and distribute small pieces of candy. At Scott’s request he brought only token gifts when he visited. _They should love you for keeping a roof over their heads,_ Scott had said.

Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr had founded the Institute, but Warren Worthington, scion of American royalty and the most visible mutant in the world, was responsible for its continued existence. When the Salem Center town council and Westchester County executive had raised Charles Xavier’s property taxes to a cool million, in an effort to shut down his group home for mutant children, Charles had applied to the Worthington Foundation for a grant. His application had resulted in an invitation to a personal meeting with Warren, who had ultimately adopted Charles’ dream as his own. Under Warren’s guidance, Charles had sold his property, which had been in his family for over two hundred years, to a newly-minted tax-exempt Section 501(c)(3) charitable organization, the Xavier Foundation. The trustees, discreetly recruited by Warren, were individuals in his social sphere whom he knew to be mutants passing as ordinary humans, or rather, passing as ordinary multimillionaires.

On an ongoing basis, Warren defended the children from the legal maneuvering and regulatory burden that their enemies imposed for no purpose but to disrupt their little lives. Scott routinely talked to his kids about Warren, tasked them to make gifts for Warren – paintings and drawings, mysterious creations of construction paper and lace doilies, homemade cards and letters sprinkled with gobs of glue and glitter. Scott packaged the gifts in scrapbooks that Emma told him Warren frequently paged through and displayed in his home and office. It had occurred to Scott, and apparently to no one else, that _someone_ needed to forge an emotional connection between their benefactor and the children. He didn’t think abstract concepts of species survival were enough motivation to keep Warren in the ring.   

Scott stood back, wondering where Emma was. Unfortunately he couldn’t raise the portcullis of the mind-castle for her. He didn’t know how to let in one telepath and keep out two others at the same time. He didn’t wonder where Warren’s entourage was. His telepathically-vetted people would have proceeded to spread out around the grounds and house like Secret Service agents preparing for an inauguration. Iconic as JFK Junior, Warren Worthington would have been a target even if he weren’t a mutant, but he _was_ a mutant, a wealthy, famous, influential mutant, and there were many ideologues who sincerely wished him dead.

At length Warren rose to his feet and Scott moved in, gently ushering the children away and asking his helpers to take them outdoors to play. Warren shook hands with the star-struck volunteers and employees and thanked them for their hard work and dedication. Scott caught only second-hand glimpses of Charming Warren, but this, too, was a mark of Warren’s regard. Like generals and politicians, he was exquisitely polite to underlings and pitiless to his adjutants.

At length Scott and Warren stood alone in the dayroom, floor littered with toys, walls decorated with posters and charts and art. Warren didn’t sit in one of the few adult-sized chairs in the room. Scott also remained on his feet. He did not pace or rock or gesture or stick his hands in his pockets. He maintained a relaxed stance and waited silently; he never filled a void with idle chatter and seldom spoke until he was spoken to, two lessons beaten into him as a child. As an adult he had realized to his surprise that this behavior was perceived as powerful.

“Charles notified me that you want to resign as team leader.” Warren shook his head. “I suppose this is the result of the conversation we had after Liberty Island. Scott, I thought you were mature enough to take constructive criticism. I didn’t think you’d melt like a snowflake.”

“I’ve reflected on your advice for three months, Warren. Snowflakes melt a lot faster than that.” Scott spoke dispassionately. “You critiqued my performance because you want me to be successful. I want to be successful too. I want the team to be successful. I believe that goal can best be accomplished under Logan’s leadership.”

Warren did not interrupt. Scott supposed that was a strategy taught at Wharton.

“We can take it for granted he’s served in World War I and World War II. He’s got extensive experience, real-world combat experience. I saw that at Liberty Island. And I can’t replicate that kind of experience by reading Army field manuals.” Scott shook his head. “The team’s stuck right now, stuck at my level. They can’t rise any higher than my level of competence. And I want to see them take it to the next level. Maybe Logan joined us by accident, but he’s here now. I’m doing the team a disservice by clinging to the leadership position when a more qualified man has joined us.”

Scott ceased speaking. Warren waited, studying him. Scott did not proceed to nervously babble to fill the silence. _The foster care system taught me more about acting powerful than you ever learned in CEO school, Warren._

What Scott did not add was _There is a hell of a difference between fighting World War II as Gomer Pyle and fighting World War II as Eisenhower_. Scott was certain Logan had never amounted to more than cannon fodder because Logan had obviously never outgrown a childish need to fight authority. _Let’s see you fight authority when you are the authority_.

Eventually Warren said, “You make a persuasive argument for Logan as team leader.”

“I’m making an argument for progress, which incidentally involves Logan as team leader.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever had a man recommend his ex-girlfriend’s new boyfriend for the top spot. I’m not sure if you’re exceptionally self-aware or having a crisis of confidence.” Warren folded his arms. “Scott, six years ago I recommended you for team leader, and I didn’t do that because I had no other options. There’s always a Navy SEAL willing to sell out to the highest bidder. The name Erik Prince comes to mind.”

_You’d have to pay Erik Prince a million dollars a year to do what I do. Vigilante, pilot, grade school teacher, plumber, electrician, mechanic…_

Warren sighed “You operate so professionally that I forget you’re not a professional soldier. You’re a soft-hearted civilian under the leather, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that works in our favor. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the mission involves protecting children, or adults who are as helpless as children. But Liberty Island was the one mission, the _one_ mission, that called for sacrificing a child to the greater good. And I should not have been surprised that you couldn’t do it.”

Scott resisted the impulse to look over his shoulder to see who the hell Warren was talking to.

Warren sighed again. “So upon further reflection, I understand that I’m the one to blame for the near-catastrophe at Liberty Island. I’m supposed to understand my people, their strengths and weaknesses.”

“No. You delegated leadership to me. You shouldn’t have to micromanage me afterwards.”

Warren nodded, slowly. He looked around the room, walked to a chair and seated himself, carefully draping his wings over the back of the chair.

Scott grabbed a chair, dragged it over and sat. It seemed Collegial Warren had joined the conversation.

“I accept your recommendation,” Warren said, “although I’m not entirely convinced you’re the wrong man for the job or Logan’s the right man. But I will advise my fellow trustees to give him the opportunity if he accepts.” Warren fell silent a moment. “You’re understandably focused on the relationship between Logan and Jean, but I’d like to draw your attention to the relationship between Logan and Charles. The rather inexplicable relationship.”

“Yes,” Scott said grimly. “I’ve noticed.”

“Logan’s not an employee of the Xavier Foundation, so that makes him a houseguest. Charles’ guest.”

“He isn’t paid for missions? He wasn’t paid for Liberty Island?”

“Let me clarify. He’s not on the payroll, but he’s paid for each individual mission he participates in, as if he were an independent contractor. The same way we pay the auxiliary team members. But he hasn’t signed a contract. And he’s paid cash. Actual wads of dollar bills. Which has required some creative accounting.”

“So basically we’re paying an illegal alien under the table?”

“Well, you’re the guy who flew him over the border. What exactly does Logan do around here all day?”

“I don’t know. He works directly for Charles. Special projects, something. He comes and goes, with no explanation. I know Charles is paying him directly, cash, out of his own pocket. Something his executive assistant mentioned, because she’s the one who has to procure the cash.”

“Charles is giving him cash? That’s very interesting. That may be the most interesting thing I’ve heard all summer.” Warren gazed meditatively at the children’s artwork pinned to the wall. “I’m frankly mystified by the influence Logan wields over Charles. If Logan’s a con man, I haven’t been able to figure out what the con is.”

“I have a theory.”

“Yes?”

Scott hesitated. Finally, he laughed in embarrassment. “I forgot what I was going to say.”

“You have a lot on your mind.” Warren shrugged. “When you notified me back in May that Charles had shown a veritable stranger the Cerebro and the Blackbird…. If anyone other than Charles had acted so rashly, Jimmy Hoffa would have had some company under the goal posts of Giant Stadium.”

Warren’s father had been rumored to have had a hand in Hoffa’s disappearance. Scott could believe it.

“You do know Charles is going to pull this conversation right out of your head on your way out the door.”

“I’ve already had this conversation with Charles,” Warren said tensely. “And the fact that Logan’s skull is completely coated with metal is alarming. Emma confirmed for me that he’s telepath-proof. Exactly what I’d expect of a government infiltrator. I thought he might be FBI or CIA or CSIS.”

“Charles and Jean say they can read his mind.”

“You don’t believe that and neither do I. But an alphabet agency would have provided Logan with a cover story, a background. A military record, a criminal record. The fact that he has _no_ background is strange. It’s like he parachuted in from another planet.” Warren spread his hands. “I suppose my concerns are irrelevant. He proved his loyalty to us at Liberty Island.”

_No, he didn’t. He did his best to blow the mission. He kept us completely focused on saving Rogue. At the last possible second, I remembered what we were there to do._

But Scott couldn’t admit that without admitting he’d allowed Logan to seize control of the mission, redefine the mission, send them all hurtling down the path to failure. _I was weak, I was indecisive, I deferred to his judgment. Did I leave my balls in a bag at home?_

“And you’re even recommending him for the top spot. Scott, I have some difficulty picturing you in a subordinate role. Do you really think you can take orders from Logan?”

“I’d actually prefer to resign from the A Team.”

Warren inhaled. Abruptly he rose to his feet. Scott stood also. It seemed Antagonistic Warren was back.

“Scott, you promised me no drama and no mission impact. I’m holding you to that. I realize this is an awkward situation but you are just going to have to pull on your big-boy pants and figure out a way to work with your ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend.”

Scott interjected, quietly but firmly. “I’m not crazy enough to go on missions with a man who wants me dead.”

Warren stared at him. Scott looked calmly back. Finally Warren wheeled and strode to the window. He looked out, obviously not admiring the view but collecting his thoughts. Scott waited silently.

Warren turned. “Jean says you’re paranoid, and when you say shit like that, I have to wonder if she’s right.”

“My cheating girlfriend says I’m paranoid.”

“She says she’s not cheating.”

“My cheating girlfriend says she’s not cheating. Warren, have you ever met a woman?”

“Point taken.”

“Jean is the team doctor, my doctor. I dumped her and she’s using her privileged position to get back at me. I suppose I should be grateful she doesn’t work for the IRS.”

Warren paused irresolutely. After a moment, he said, “Why would Logan harm you? What’s his motive? You gave Jean up. He’s got what he wants.”

“Do you really think this is about a woman?” Scott turned away. “I need to get back to the kids.”

It was probably the first time in Warren’s adult life that an employee had walked out on him.

“Scott.”

He turned around.

“For a couple of years now I’ve talked about expanding this operation to the West Coast. Opening another school, starting another team. Maybe this is the right time. Would you consider moving to San Francisco?”

_I tell you there’s a bad man in the house and your solution is to apologize to the man, spank me for telling lies, and send me to another house._

The rage that had merely slumbered in Scott for over ten years rumbled to life like Krakatoa. The rage against social workers, judges, cops, teachers, nurses, foster parents, group home employees. The rage against everyone who was supposed to protect him and had not.

“Warren, I’m honored. I need to think about it, though. It would be a huge responsibility.”

“I have no doubt you’re up to it.” Warren stepped forward. He spoke warmly, or as warmly as Warren ever spoke. “Scott, you can’t fulfill your potential with Xavier towering over you like Mount Fuji. It’s time you stepped out of his shadow. You’ve learned all you can from him and you’re ready to move on and be your own man. By the way. That’s the speech my uncle gave me about my father.”

Scott smiled.

“But take your time. Meanwhile I’ll float the idea to the other trustees.”

Scott nodded, smiled again. He turned and walked away.

It was time to launch the next phase of his campaign.


	9. Chapter 9

_Never make a companion equal to a brother – Hesiod_

Those with a need to know were informed that Cyclops was temporarily transferring from the active team to the auxiliary in order to focus on a special project for Warren Worthington; and that Wolverine had agreed to serve as team leader for the foreseeable future.

Naturally, everyone without a need to know was gossiping about it by dinner time. Some believed that Scott was taking a sabbatical to mend his broken heart. Others thought Scott was planning an X-Men mission that would rival D-Day. Wolverine’s appointment as team leader generated fierce debate. About half deemed it nuts and about half thought it logical. Logan did, after all, fight for a living.

Scott was pleased to learn secondhand that Logan had accepted the position of team leader. If Logan were really a government infiltrator, he would use his privileged position to betray the X-Men and their affiliates. If he was exactly what he said he was, he would screw up until his incompetence was evident and intolerable.

What Scott had not anticipated was Wolverine taking over the B Team’s self-defense classes from Storm.

Down in the servants’ hall, Ororo fumed about the change. Logan had also taken over the B Team’s field classes such as land navigation and wilderness survival. “Am I the B Team leader or am I not? Or am I just the team leader for the scutwork?”

Teaching the military science classes to the B Team wasn’t scutwork, and managing the high school was a full-time job in itself, but Scott made sympathetic noises as she vented. He thought uncomfortably that he should have acted months ago to reduce Ororo’s workload. _I should have asked Charles to give Logan the field classes._ Initially he had not done so because every morning he had expected Logan to be gone by night, and later he had not done so because he would not give Logan a role that would justify his continued presence in the house.

Ororo heaped abuse on Scott as well. “This is all your fault, Scott, you pussy.”

“You’re supposed to be a feminist, you wench.”

“Get out before I fry you.”

Scott exited stage left and trudged up the service stairs to the second floor. He strode down the hall to the east wing and rapped on the door of the room Bobby Drake shared with three other boys. Supposedly shared with three other boys; the room always seemed to contain six or eight. “Will Mr. Drake please step out into the hall?” he called out ominously. “We need to have a little chat.”

Howls, yells, cheers and jeers erupted behind the door. Eventually Bobby stepped out and closed the door firmly behind him. He rolled his eyes. “Kids these days,” he mimicked.

Scott smiled at him. Over the years he had come to love Bobby as a person in his own right and not as an Alex Summers substitute. Bobby’s sunny disposition was the Balm of Gilead for Scott’s soul. A general favorite among the students, the unofficial school president, Bobby remained optimistic about the shitty world his generation was inheriting. His idealism was a source of guilt to Scott, a spur to Scott’s endeavors. He wanted to make the world the kind of place Bobby thought it was.

Bobby peered at him in evident concern. “You doing okay, Scott?”

Scott nodded and smiled. Several days ago he had allowed Bobby to console him for the loss of Jean. Bobby had insisted on getting out of the mansion and going down to Breakstone Lake, and Scott had provided the beers. While genuinely sympathetic, Bobby had obviously relished the opportunity to be the older man’s confidante. Scott had realized, and it was a bittersweet realization, that the relationship between them was rapidly equalizing. Bobby was growing up, becoming another adult, becoming a friend.

“Do you have fifteen minutes?” Scott pointed down the hall. “Can we talk in the study room?”

“Yeah, sure.” Bobby fell into step beside Scott.

“You’re not in the middle of homework?” School was in session year-round at Xavier’s, although classes were only held in the morning during summer session.

“It’s Friday night, Scott. I realize that doesn’t mean anything to an old fart like you.”

“Yeah, so why are you still in the house?”

“Cuz we’re too cheap to buy dinner in the city. We’re gonna eat here and then go in.”

Scott closed the door of the second-floor study room behind them.

“So what’s up?”

Scott dropped into a chair. “Logan’s taking over the self-defense classes.”

“Yeah, we heard.” Bobby shrugged and sat. “Is that some kind of surprise to you?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t like it. Well, he gets to make the rules now, Scott, and whose fault is that?” Bobby immediately softened his tone. “And it does make sense. The guy fights for a living. He knows how to fight.”

“He doesn’t. I’ve studied his fights.” At Bobby’s curious look, Scott clarified. “Bootleg videos. Remember the business trip I took back in June? I did some bar-hopping in Alberta.”

“That was sneaky. I approve.”

“And he doesn’t know how to fight. He just flails those adamantium fists around until people fall down. Logan’s left a trail of broken bodies from Alaska to Panama. He’s permanently crippled a few people. And what are they going to do, file police reports?” Scott inhaled. “I am telling you this because I want to put you on your guard. Try to avoid sparring with him, and if you have to spar with him, let him win and let him win quickly. Let him call you a pussy, that always makes him happy. Try to keep him at arm’s length. Please.”

Scott did not add _He may know you’re special to me. Jean may have said something._

Bobby was silent for a moment. Finally he said. “Got it. Should I pass the word to the rest of the B Team?”

“No. I can’t trust them to keep quiet. And it’s not really possible to hurt Hisako or Kitty or Piotr. John….” Scott did not say _John can take care of himself better than anyone I know._ “Logan’s in more danger from John than John is from Logan. I know Rogue just joined the B Team, but nothing’s going to happen to Rogue. That leaves Jubilee. Don’t say anything to her but keep an eye out for her. Create a distraction if you need to.”

“Look, Scott, if you’re this worried, can’t you talk to the Professor?”

“The Professor doesn’t listen to me on the topic of Logan, for obvious reasons.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll look out for Jubes.” Bobby spoke earnestly. “Look, I’m sure things will be okay. I mean, this isn’t like living on the cagefighting circuit, where he can bust up a guy and move on. He’s the team leader now. He lives here now. He’s not gonna screw that up.”

Scott pretended to be reassured. “You’re probably right. I’m probably worried about nothing.”

Bobby thumped him on the shoulder. “Okay, I gotta get back.”

“Wait, Bobby, there’s one more thing. Something I need to know.” Scott rubbed his jaw. Everyone thought of this as _Scott’s nervous tick._ Scott employed it whenever he wanted people to think he was nervous. “What’s going on with you and Rogue? Are you serious about her?”

“Uh, what?” Bobby laughed.

“I really need to know. Are you in love with her?”

“Wow. Okay, Dad. Um.” Bobby sobered up. He paused to collect his thoughts. “I like her. I could like her a lot. But I’m not going to. Not gonna let that happen.”

Scott remained encouragingly silent and attentive.

“For one thing, I graduate next year and thanks to Mr. Worthington I’m going to Boston College. Maybe I got a shot at playing for their hockey team. And I don’t wanna get serious about any girl here at Xavier’s when I’m gonna be leaving. I don’t wanna do the long-distance thing.”

“I’m impressed. That’s some pretty mature thinking there.”

“Yeah, don’t give me too much credit. Rogue made it easy for me.” Bobby sighed. “She’s got this crush on Logan. And I get it, he saved her life. I can’t compete with that.”

“How can she still – does she really not understand –”

“Sure she does. But I guess she thinks he’s gonna change his mind.” Bobby rolled his eyes. “And who wants to be in bed with a girl who’s pretending you’re some other guy? I’m just bein’ theoretical here. Obviously we haven’t gone to bed, cuz I’m still alive. Is that what you’re worried about? You can stop worrying, okay?”

“Okay.” But Scott did not smile back. “But that’s not exactly why I asked. I wanted to make sure you weren’t interested in her, because I am.”

Bobby stared blankly at Scott a moment before bursting out laughing. “Man, you had me going there.”

Scott said nothing.

“Holy shit. Holy shit, Scott, _Rogue?_ Did you not hear a damn word I just said?”

“I did.”

“Then what the hell’s wrong with you? Why would you put yourself through that? Are you just looking for a fight with Logan?”

“Logan is pretty obviously interested in someone other than Rogue, so why would there be a fight?”

“Well, maybe he’s not madly in love with her, but he cares about her.”

“So what? That makes him one of a hundred people who care about her. Logan’s got no rights here. He’s not her father or brother. He doesn’t get to tell her who to be with.”

“What makes you think she’d want to be with you? Isn’t it enough for you…. Scott, what’s wrong with you? You gotta go break your heart over another girl who’s involved with Logan?”

“Rogue isn’t involved with Logan except in her imagination.”

“But, Scott, you’re nine years older than her.”

Scott laughed. “Well, that would be a change.”

“Okay, never mind that. Do you really want a girlfriend you can never fuck? I mean, shit, she almost killed _Logan_. You do remember their first night in this house? Even Logan doesn’t wanna hit it anymore. That should tell you something, Scott.”

“I’m a resourceful kind of guy, Bobby. When the time comes, _if_ the time comes, I’ll figure something out.”

Bobby got up and clutched at his head. “I’m gonna wake up tomorrow and this is all gonna be a dream.”

Scott laughed again. He stood as well, put a hand on Bobby’s back and propelled him out of the study room. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t discuss this with anyone.”

“Oh, I won’t. Who’d believe me?”

_But you’ll be thinking about it so loudly that Charles and Jean won’t be able to avoid hearing you. And that’s fine._


	10. Chapter 10

_Supreme excellence consists of breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting – Sun Tzu_

Scott found it surprisingly simple to avoid Jean, Logan and Charles. He slept on the fourth floor, ate breakfast and lunch on the fourth floor, and worked mostly on the fourth floor. The two-hundred-year-old mansion had no central air conditioning, and Scott spent most of the hot summer afternoons outdoors with his kids at the Xavier estate’s private swimming hole, Breakstone Lake, which had been Breakstone Creek until seventeen-year-old Scott had had an unfortunate accident. (Charles had taken the devastation rather calmly at the time, simply ordering the construction of a boathouse and truckloads of sand to build a beach. Charles’ crotchety eighty-year-old neighbor, Mr. Albert Jenkins, had called NORAD to report a nuclear explosion, but local police assured the military that Mr. Jenkins was a crank who constantly reported explosions, earthquakes, bizarre weather events, and UFOs.)

Scott still made daily trips to his office on the ground floor. He still hung out occasionally in the servants’ hall, a venue that had never appealed to Jean and didn’t seem to appeal to Logan either. He still ate in the dining hall in the evenings, but instead of sitting at the senior staff table he sat with his kids and preoccupied himself with wrangling them. He used the inferior school gym on the ground floor instead of the superior team gym in the sublevels.

He discovered that all his business with Charles could be accomplished via email or phone calls to Charles’ executive assistant. He discovered how quickly a man could lose touch with his soulmate. For years Jean Grey had led an overscheduled life, but in the post-Scott era she operated at a frenzied pace. She was out of the house early, returned late, and frequently overnighted in the city. Her to-do list didn’t seem to leave much time for doing Logan.

As to Logan, Ororo reported that Logan seemed lost without his Scott-shaped punching bag. He also seemed bewildered by his out-in-the-open, officially-acknowledged relationship with Jean Grey. Taking their cue from Scott, everyone affiliated with the Institute treated Jean and Logan like an old married couple. Mr. Anderson, the mansion’s terrifying majordomo, even acerbically directed Logan to move into Jean’s suite and relinquish his room to a newly-hired employee. Logan had ignored him. Almost overnight Jean Grey had transformed from secret lover to ball-and-chain. Logan was like a barking dog who’d chased a bus and now that he’d caught it he didn’t know what to do with it.


	11. Chapter 11

_You may not be interested in war, but war is interested in you – Leon Trotsky_

Saturday meals in the dining hall were unstructured affairs, with food put out in refrigerated cases and people wandering in and out to fix their own meals. Scott regularly ate breakfast at the crack of dawn with his kids on the fourth floor. But at eight o’clock on this particular Saturday morning, Scott turned the fourth floor over to his helpers, seated himself in the dining hall and patiently waited like a lion at a watering hole.

Scott’s unsuspecting sources of information proved correct when Rogue wandered in alone around nine, microwaved herself a hot breakfast and sat by a window to eat. Rogue always dressed nicely, eschewing the jeans-and-t-shirt uniform of the other teenage girls; today she wore a calf-length dark green dress that clung flatteringly to her hourglass figure and revealed a mesmerizing amount of cleavage. Eighteen-year-old Rogue had obviously made peace with her unfashionable nineteenth-century body type and did not try to wear clothes designed to hang off a boyish runway model. Petite and voluptuous, she dressed to emphasize her assets – heavy breasts, tiny waist, wide pelvis, pert ass. For ten years Scott had been in lust with tall, lean, leggy Jean, but studying Rogue, he felt a burgeoning sexual buzz. _I’m not going to have to fake everything._    

Rogue hadn’t brought a book or magazine and simply contemplated the view as she ate, with a pair of wrist-length gloves lying to one side of her plate. Her dress was sleeveless and a sheer cardigan hung over the back of her chair. The benefit of eating alone; she didn’t have to keep her skin covered for the protection of fellow diners.

Rogue, as Marie D’Ancanto wished to be known, had a cordial yet awkward relationship with her classmates. She didn’t live in the second-floor dormitories with the other teens; she had a private bedroom with a private bathroom on the third floor, with the live-in adult employees, because the other girls were afraid to room with her. She was a year behind in school, having spent what would have been her senior year wandering more than a thousand miles from Mississippi to Alberta. Her starring role in the Liberty Island drama had set her even further apart from her peers. Rogue was older, not simply in years but in experiences and absorbed memories; older, reserved, cynical, solitary. Seducing her would be a challenge, but Scott enjoyed a challenge, and he did not feel a shred of guilt. At the culmination of his plan he would get what he wanted and Rogue would get what she wanted, what she _thought_ she wanted, and God help the poor girl, what she thought she wanted was Logan.

Scott felt the adrenaline rush that hit him at the start of any mission. _Showtime_. He picked up his coffee mug and walked over to Rogue’s table.

“May I join you?” he asked politely.

Startled, Rogue looked up at him. After a moment she said, “That’s a new look.”

He shrugged as if he did not understand. Scott normally dressed like a Wall Streeter by day and a prepster after business hours. It was partly an overreaction to being mocked throughout grade school and high school for his inadequate clothing, and partly the result of partnering with a stylish woman. Jean preferred classic Brooks Brothers menswear on Scott, which made her alliance with Logan the Lumberjack extra-boggling.

But in the run-up to his campaign, Scott had devoted several days to acquiring a new-to-him wardrobe at thrift shops in Westchester and New York City. Jeans, plain dark t-shirts – softened, lightened, tightened, worn-looking, as if he’d had them all along in the back of his closet and had just pulled them out again. He had artfully rumpled his hair with some gel, and as a final touch, had not shaved that morning. An unshaven Scott Summers was probably going to cause mansion residents to consult the skies to reassure themselves that the sun had indeed risen in the east.

“May I?” he repeated. He could tell Rogue thought Casual Scott looked hot, even if she was also perplexed and wary at seeing him standing at her table.

Rogue hesitated, shook her head dismissively. “Mr. Summers, I’m not talkin’ about Logan with you.” Her Mississippi drawl was charming even if her demeanor was not.

“That’s good, because I don’t want to talk about Logan.”

“So what’s there to talk about?”

“We have something in common.”

“Yeah, I know what we got in common,” Rogue said grimly, “and I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“We’re the only people in this school who can’t control their powers. Until you came here, I was the only one.”

Rogue looked taken aback.

Scott pulled out the chair across from her and sat. Tapping his glasses, he said, “I can’t turn it off. I have to wear these glasses all the time so I don’t kill anyone.”

Rogue did not answer. She forked some scrambled eggs into her mouth, chewed slowly, swallowed.

Scott sipped his coffee. “I came here when I was sixteen. Never occurred to me that I was a mutie, because if you’re going to turn into a mutie, it happens to you when you’re twelve or thirteen, right? The Professor figured I was a gamma. But then I got my powers when I was seventeen.” He did not add _Just like you_.

Rogue said nothing. She buttered and began eating a triangle of toast

“I had to tape my eyes shut. Walked around with a white cane and learned how to read Braille. And for six months the Professor told me it was all in my mind and I could fix it if I really tried.”

Rogue swallowed the last of her toast. She sat, jaw clenched.

“So for six months I blamed myself. Did the therapy thing with the Professor and took lots of different pills. And then the Professor finally got hold of my medical records from Nebraska Children and Family Services.” _Stole them._ “I was in an accident when I was eight. Head injury.” Scott rapped his head with his knuckles. “Can’t do scans anymore on this head, but there were plenty of scans from before. Damage to the fifth brain lobe and the thirteenth cranial nerve. Except everyone else has four brain lobes and twelve cranial nerves. I’m lucky the doctors didn’t off me in the pediatric ward so they could dissect my brain.”

Rogue still said nothing.

“Of course the Professor felt terrible. He apologized over and over. I finally stopped being mad at him. He’s a child psychiatrist, so of course he thought it was a mental problem, not a physical problem.”

Rogue finally spoke. “Dr. Grey says I don’t have a physical problem.”

“Well, good. That means you can fix it. But until you do, there’s two of us.”

“Look, Mr. Summers, there’s no _us_. I’m not your friend.”

“You’re not my friend because Logan’s told you not to be my friend.” Scott shrugged. “I thought you were an independent woman.”

“Logan doesn’t tell me what to do. I’m not your friend because I don’t like you.”

“You don’t even know me. All you know about me is what Logan tells you.” Scott shook his head, as if disappointed in her. “Hating people because Daddy hates them is for children. Do your own research and make your own decision.”

He could see the _Daddy_ wisecrack stung. Scott got to his feet. “I’m going into Salem Center. You should come with me. Purely in the name of scientific research, of course.”

He glanced around and noted about thirty people now in the dining hall, employees, volunteers and students, most of them staring stupefied at Casual Scott. Among them, Logan. _Excellent._

“I’m goin’ into the city with some of the kids from my class.”

Scott shrugged again. “You’ve got more patience than I do. I figure I spend enough time with kids. Sometimes I just want some adult company.” He turned away.

“Why are you so anxious to be my buddy?”

Scott half-turned and smiled. What Jean called his lady-killer smile and what Ororo rudely called his panty-dropper smile. “Well, I could give you a lot of politically correct reasons, but I might as well admit that I think you’re an attractive woman.”

He sauntered off to the coffee station to fill a paper cup. He put a lid on it, turned and bounced off Ororo. She was staring at him wide-eyed.

“Scott?”

“Good morning.”

“Remember how I said you should dress more casually?”

“Uh huh.”

“I was wrong. Go back upstairs and put on a tie. And shave.”

Scott laughed. “You’re still going into the city tonight, right? I’m going to Salem Center but I’ll be back before you leave.” Over her shoulder he saw Logan get up and walk to Rogue’s table. Logan sat, leaned forward and spoke with evident earnestness.

“Is this your new ‘hangin’ out at the hardware store’ look? Because it’s not working.”

“So now you're the queen of hardware store fashion?”

“I don’t think it’s gonna go over at the tractor supply store, either. Or the auto parts store. Or all the other fun-filled places where you spend your time communing with rednecks.”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly blending in when I wore a polo shirt and chinos. And oh yeah, the glow-in-the-dark glasses.”

“Trust me, you blend in less now.”

Scott saw Rogue abruptly stand. She put on her cardigan, jerked on her gloves and strode towards the coffee station. Scott admired the view. _That girl has a body for days. How did I not notice before?_

Ororo left off haranguing Scott as Rogue walked up. “Good morning, Rogue.”

“Mornin’, Miss Munroe.” Rogue turned. “Scott.” She said _Scott_ , not _Mr. Summers._ “I think I _would_ like some adult company. When are you leavin’?”

Scott smiled down at her. “Meet me in fifteen minutes in the garage.”

She nodded and briskly walked out of the dining hall. Scott decided the rear view was just as good.

Ororo gawped at him. She smacked her head. She smacked it again. “Clearly I’m still in bed and dreaming.”

“Goodbye, Ro. I’ll be back around four.”

Ororo caught up with him in the hall. “Scott, hey Scott, wait a sec.”

He stopped and glanced inquiringly at her. Ororo looked around, pulled him into what had once been the ladies’ drawing room, and closed the door behind them.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but Rogue is one of my students.” Ororo spoke seriously. “I don’t think she should be using your first name or hanging out with you in Salem Center. She was supposed to be going into the city with the rest of the kids.”

“Rogue is eighteen years old, and if she doesn’t want to spend the day with a bunch of kids, that’s her prerogative.”

“I’m concerned that she’s going to be spending the day with _you_. You’re a teacher at this school and she’s a student, even if she is eighteen. And you’re nine years older than she is.”

“Oh, please. I was a seventeen-year-old student when a twenty-six-year-old teacher took me to bed. It’s a little late for the Xavier Institute to start making rules about student-teacher relations.”

“And I was fourteen and no one was asking for my opinion, but it was wrong and Jean should have been fired." Ororo peered up at him in bewilderment. "Scott, why are you acting like this? This isn’t like you. Are you just trying to piss off Logan?”

“If I wanted to piss off Logan I’d throw away his cigars. Rogue doesn’t mean anything to him.”

“What? How can you say that? He saved her life.”

“Yes, Ro, he saved her life. We’re X-Men, we save people’s lives, it’s what we do. Logan was just doing his job. He’s not contractually obliged to fall in love with every fair maiden he saves. He’s not even obliged to like her.”

“Well, he does like her. They’re friends.”

“Let me get this straight. I’m not allowed to speak to Rogue because she’s Logan’s friend, but Logan’s allowed to fuck Jean because she’s my fiancée?”

“You know what, let’s just leave Logan out of this. I don’t care if Logan gets pissy or not, but you’re goddamned pissing _me_ off. It’s not appropriate for you to socialize with Rogue. She’s my student, Scott, and I want you to respect my wishes.”

“She’s not _my_ student. Rogue is a legal adult and she can legally spend the day hanging out in the hardware store with me.”

He turned away from Ororo, opened the drawing room door and strode out and down the hall.


	12. Chapter 12

_It is unnecessary for a prince to have all the good qualities I have enumerated, but it is very necessary to appear to have them – Niccolo Machiavelli_

Of course Scott did not take Rogue to the hardware store. He spent a pleasant day meandering with her through Salem Center, a village founded by Dutch settlers in 1650, when New York was still New Netherland. While not as great a tourist magnet as Sleepy Hollow or Tarrytown, Salem Center still drew a respectable number of day-trippers from New York City, particularly in the summer. Rogue was as obviously charmed as any other visitor by the village’s cobbled streets, stone buildings, pocket parks, quaint shops and boutique restaurants. The fact that she _was_ charmed was testament to her more developed tastes. Every other student rushed straight through the village to the train station and onward to New York City for the (illegal) drinking, dancing and music. Scott and Rogue didn’t encounter even one other Institute resident in Salem Center, and Scott wasn’t surprised. No one wanted to spend time in boring Salem Center when Manhattan beckoned.

The villagers recognized him, of course, but merely as an employee of the Xavier Institute, not as the person responsible for the Scott Summers Memorial Sunroof in the train station. Fortunately for Scott, the great big gaping hole in the roof of the station had been attributed to a bomb set off by Lehnsherr’s people. Erik Lehnsherr had degaussed every security camera system in tiny Salem Center when he kidnapped Rogue from the train station in May, and even eyewitnesses to the battle had been too confused to give useful descriptions of the combatants. However, the Salem Center police were on the lookout for a Caucasian woman with white-blonde hair and blue eyes, which, as Ororo said, just went to show how amazingly unobservant people could be.

So while Salem Center’s finest would have instantly arrested Dolly Parton, Scott and Rogue strolled unmolested. Scott wasn’t surprised that Rogue hadn’t spent any time in the village during her residence at the Institute; she only remembered it as the scene of her kidnapping. As she wandered through antique shops and art galleries and admired the picturesque streets, her normal reserve melted; she smiled, exclaimed and pointed like any tourist. Scott felt quietly satisfied to have overwritten at least some of her bad memories.

Scott would not have been male had he not been conscious of the attention his companion was drawing from other males. Months ago Rogue had put aside the Little Red Riding Hood cloak and the Amish girl clothes and developed a retro style that flattered but still covered her deadly skin. With her cardigan, gloves and hat, Rogue seemed a demure little lady, in delectable contrast to her sinful figure. He was so absorbed in watching Rogue and the people watching her that he was taken by surprise when Rogue nudged him and said playfully, “I’m scared that gal’s gonna push me into traffic. She’s got her eyes on you.”

Scott looked down at her and smiled. She looked carefree, relaxed. “Do you have any idea how many men are looking at you? I’m starting to think I should have brought a shotgun.”

He was sorry to see the smile fade from her face. Rogue looked away. Scott didn’t need to be a telepath to read her mind: _You don’t need a gun for protection when you have killer skin._

He said gently, “Let’s get some lunch.”

He had put thought into where he would take her for lunch. It was a rustic spot with an arbor in a backyard garden and picnic tables placed widely enough apart that Rogue would not have to fear anyone bumping into her. He picked the farthest table and seated her between the table and the wooden privacy fence, doubly ensuring that no one could brush against her. The day was hot and most customers had chosen to eat indoors in the air conditioning. But it was pleasant in the shade of the arbor, and with evident relief Rogue removed her cardigan, hat and gloves, sighing in satisfaction as the breeze wafted over her bare arms. Scott was pleased to see the smile return to her face as she looked around.

“This is nice,” she said. “It’s been a nice day. Thank you, Scott.”

“I should be thanking you. It’s hard to feel sorry for myself when I’m in the company of a beautiful woman.”

Rogue looked awkwardly away. The waitress arrived, took their orders for salads and sandwiches, and after the woman had delivered their iced teas, Scott said, “If you don’t mind, let’s keep it formal when we’re in the house. If you could please keep calling me Mr. Summers when other people are around. Technically I’m a teacher and you’re a student, even if I’m not your teacher and you’re not my student.” He added, “I might as well tell you that Miss Munroe isn’t happy with me. She didn’t want me to take you to Salem Center today.”

“Why not?”

“Well, someone complained to her and so she complained to me.”

Rogue’s mouth tightened in displeasure.

“Apparently someone thinks I’m a scoundrel and your reputation could be ruined forever by the scandal if you were seen in public with me.”

“Oh, my God. I’m eighteen and this is the twenty-first century. And you don’t look like Bill Clinton to me.”

“Well, that’s what I said, more or less. But I work with Miss Munroe and I don’t want to look like I’m disrespecting her. So the next time we go out, I guess we shouldn’t make plans in the dining room in front of other people.”

Rogue hesitated. Before she could say anything, if indeed she had been planning to say something, the waitress arrived with their food. After the woman left, Scott said, “I want there to be a next time, Rogue.”

She glanced irresolutely at him.

Scott leaned forward. “You know what? I woke up this morning and I decided I was tired of being miserable. Happiness is a decision, Rogue. But a decision doesn’t mean anything unless you back it up with action. And that’s why I went up to you this morning and talked to you even though I thought you’d slap me down.”

Rogue said nothing. Slowly she began to eat her salad. Scott picked up his sandwich.

Suddenly she said, “You’re gettin' over Dr. Grey pretty fast, don’t you think?”

Scott chewed, swallowed, and sighed. “I decided back in April to break up with Dr. Grey. A month before you arrived here.”

Rogue looked surprised and skeptical. “You two looked pretty tight in May.”

“I kept going through the motions because I didn’t know how to end it. Dr. Grey is thirty-six and I felt guilty about dumping a woman that old. I knew she’d never find another guy, except maybe some sixty-year-old fart.”

Rogue nodded thoughtfully. As he had figured, this line of reasoning made perfect sense to her eighteen-year-old mind. No doubt she thought a thirty-six-year-old woman must have one foot in a nursing home and the other foot in the grave.

“And then Logan came along. And I had my honorable out.” Scott shrugged. “I hope she can hang onto him. At her age, she doesn’t have a lot of options.”

Rogue chewed a few more mouthfuls of salad. Suddenly she put down her fork. “Scott, you can’t just give up like this,” she said, agitated, even desperate. “You and Dr. Grey have been together forever! You were engaged! Why are you just giving up? Her and Logan don’t belong together.”

 _Oh, they do. Two peas in a pod. A couple of commitment-phobes. They don’t want love. They don’t want marriage. They don’t want children._ Scott doubted Logan had ever spent an entire night in a woman’s bed, or stuck around long enough to share a pot of coffee in the morning; that pot of coffee would smell entirely too much like _commitment._ But if he spelled this out for Rogue, she’d never take the oaf off his hands.

He said instead, “I gave up before he showed up, Rogue. And I agree that Logan could do better. I think he got interested in Dr. Grey just because she was involved with me. Some men are like that. They don't want a woman unless other men are paying attention to her.” He shrugged again. There, he’d planted the seed; now to see if it took root in her brain.

They finished their meal in silence.

The foot traffic on Main Street had thinned. Only the most determined tourists continued to loiter outdoors in the increasingly oppressive heat. Rogue glanced wistfully at girls walking past in skimpy shorts and tank tops.

Scott said, “I want to show you one more place before we go home.”

Without speaking, they walked north on Main Street for several more blocks before Scott made a turn onto a quiet cobblestone street of colonial-era townhouses overhung by a tunnel of old-growth trees. They walked another block and Scott turned again and then again into an alley, if such a term could be used to describe the picturesque passageway. It was lined with small brick buildings covered with climbing ivy and hung with flower boxes.

“This is a mews,” he said. “These buildings used to be the stables behind those townhouses. Carriages below and stablemen’s quarters above. They’ve all been renovated and turned into condos. This whole alley is one condo association.”

“Oh,” Rogue said. She looked about curiously, then stared up at Scott in surprise. “Are you buyin’ a condo? Are you movin’ out?”

“No, I could never afford to buy one of these. But I can afford to rent one, for a few months.” He dug a key out of his pocket, tagged with a house address. “When things started going to hell, I wanted a place where I could get away from... get away.” He held out the key to her. “Maybe you feel like that too. This is the spare key. Feel free to use it whenever you need to.”

Rogue did not reach for it. Scott took her gloved hand, put the key in her palm and closed her fingers over it.

“You’re the only person who knows about this place.” He pointed towards a door. “Miss Munroe thinks I'm hanging out at the hardware store, but I'm here, Wednesday and Saturday. I’ve got it until October first. The lady who owns it is in Europe right now.”

Scott turned and began walking back the way he had come. After a moment he heard Rogue walking beside him. He glanced at her. She seemed deep in thought.

When he parked his Jag in the mansion’s garage, after a completely silent ride from Salem Center, Rogue finally spoke, but only to utter a polite inanity “It was a nice day. Thank you.”

“I want another nice day.”

She opened the car door and glanced back at him over her shoulder. “What if I did slap you down at breakfast? What would you have done”

He smiled cockily. “Reconstitute and reengage. One skirmish does not decide the battle or the war.”

A smile cracked her somber expression. “Scott, only you could make bein’ happy sound like World War Two.” And she got out of the car and walked inside the house.


	13. Chapter 13

_Reckless man, your mind is full forever of fighting and battle work. Will you not give way even to the immortals? She is no mortal thing but a mischief immortal, dangerous, difficult and bloodthirsty, and there is no fighting against her, nor any force of defense. – The Odyssey, Book XII_

When Scott Summers turned on the charm, panties (and boxers) dropped. He never deployed his charm inside the mansion because he considered it a weapon, or more prosaically, a tool in the toolbox. Surly civil servants, arrogant administrators, bullying cops, vacuous postal clerks, even the damned souls at the Division of Motor Vehicles – never in his adult life had Scott known a woman, or a man, to resist his charm. Except Rogue.

He knew the simplest, speediest solution to his Logan problem was to seduce the man, but the thought of putting his hands and mouth on Logan revolted him. Even Scott Summers, former child prostitute, had standards. Rogue was the designated proxy, and her resistance displeased and puzzled him. But Ororo’s unanticipated behavior posed a worse complication. Scott had worked his entire professional life at the Institute, so he had never learned what every corporate serf knows: _Behind every incompetent male executive there’s some goddamned broad covering up for him._

Scott had never figured on Ororo covering up for Logan. She orchestrated the pre-mission intelligence-gathering and analyses, wrote the operations orders, and conducted the pre-mission briefings and rehearsals (which duties Logan “delegated” to her). Once on site, she directed the order of battle while Logan wandered off by himself until, covered in blood, he showed up at the Blackbird in time to catch a ride home.

“I dunno why she’s doing his job,” Bobby said, and shrugged.

“The good of the team,” Scott said automatically. Actually he didn’t understand why, either. Saint Ororo the Martyr. Perhaps it fed her ego, perhaps it accorded with her notions of feminism, but it was affecting his campaign and he was irritated. “How do you even know this?”

“Well, she always pulls in someone from the B Team to help her. And they’re using the auxiliary way more now that you’re off the team, and they talk to us.”

It was customary for selected auxiliary members to bunk at the mansion in the run-up to a mission and Scott had indeed encountered more of them than usual in the hallways and dining hall. They exchanged laconic greetings with him and moved briskly past, as if they scarcely knew him. Scott mentally downgraded these former comrades-in-arms to the category of _passers-by_.

On paper Scott had transferred to the auxiliary, but Logan, by executive action, had eliminated Scott from the team entirely, and Scott had to suppose he acted with Warren’s concurrence. Through Ororo, Logan had confiscated Scott’s team phone and deleted Scott’s biometric access to the sub-levels. Afterwards, Ororo had escorted Scott to his locker, which he cleared out in front of a rapt audience. He had no last words; he realized that after six years as team leader there was nothing he wanted to say to his former teammates and trainees, and evidently there was nothing they wanted to say to him, either. Finally, through Kitty, Logan scrubbed Scott’s account from the dedicated team server, although not before Lucia Campos, the school’s resident nurse practitioner, prevented the accidental deletion of Scott’s medical records, and Ororo transferred Cyclops’ file folders to her own account. _Too bad I didn’t store any porn on the team server._

Scott found he did not miss team practice or the information flow, and he knew now the comradery had never been anything but a figment of his imagination. He did not yearn to know what the team was planning to do, was currently doing, or had done. He still drove to a dojo in White Plains to continue the martial arts training he had begun ten years ago as a day student at the New York School for the Blind; he didn’t need a spot on a mutant vigilante team to motivate him to maintain his proficiency at judo. He also diligently maintained his marksmanship, but his two battle visors mostly remained stowed with his uniforms in his bedroom’s wardrobe. If Bobby didn’t volunteer information, Scott would have known less than the mansion’s majordomo about the team’s activities. Some evenings, when he shepherded his kids into the dining hall for dinner, he would deduce from the empty chairs at the senior staff table, the reproachful glances thrown his way and the tension in the air, that an X-Men mission was underway; and he would realize he felt no curiosity about it.

The lack of ceremony with which he had been discarded from the team solidified his inchoate feelings of alienation from the X-Men, from Charles Xavier’s dream, from Charles Xavier. Scott ceased to reflect with pride and satisfaction on his paramilitary service. He brooded over the risks he had taken since the age of twenty-one, how he had repeatedly jeopardized his life, his body, his freedom. He would look across the dining hall at Charles, the man he had loved as a father, and behind the portcullis of the mind-castle he would think: _I let that pimp traffick me like a whore and I’m lucky I didn’t catch an STD._

Scott realized all he missed about being an X-Man was flying the Blackbird. Jean now had to participate in every mission, as the Blackbird was too complex a machine to be controlled by one person, and she and Ororo were the only pilots left; although he supposed pretty soon Jean would be showing off how she could run the starboard console with her hands and the port console with her telekinesis. The concern he would have normally felt for Ororo was mostly swallowed up in disgust for the role she played in shielding Logan from the consequences of his ineptitude. And Jean, well, she wasn’t his to worry about any more.

Scott easily refocused his excess time and energy on the nursery, kindergarten and grade school operations. It felt good to give his all to one mission, instead of reeling like a concussed boxer from team commitments to school obligations. Rededicating himself to the needs of the youngest children furnished him with the sense of noble purpose he had once felt zipping himself into his uniform.

The population of the fourth floor hovered around twenty, ebbing and surging weekly, as babies and prepubescent children were fostered out or adopted and others arrived. The unremarkable-looking ones had been abandoned because they had tested positive for the X gene. Most were abandoned because they were obvious mutants, and some were not so fortunate as to have been abandoned; their mothers had sold them to drug dealers, pimps, perverts, child pornographers, slavers, and the occasional mad scientist, diplomat or member of Saudi royalty. Some children arrived by Blackbird, rescued in the course of a mission. Some were brought by or fetched from police or lawyers or social workers. And some were dumped at the front gate like unwanted kittens, which had necessitated renovating the gatehouse and lodging a full-time gatekeeper in it.

It was standard operating procedure for the gatekeeper to notify Scott of a young child’s arrival, whatever the hour, and he was unsurprised to be awakened in his monk’s cell on the fourth floor by the ringing house phone on his nightstand. He fumbled for the receiver of the old rotary phone, thankfully shaking off a nightmare of being eaten alive by flames with mouths.

“Yes?” he croaked. God, his dreams got more bizarre by the week, as if he were taking hallucinogens.

“You were asleep?” Ororo sounded curious.

He was surprised that she was surprised. “Well, it’s the middle of the night.”

“Scott, it’s only seven o’clock. You skipped dinner.”

_It is? I did?_ Bewildered, Scott sat up and looked out his bedroom window at the gathering twilight.

“Look, I’m calling to tell you that Bobby got hurt in the self-defense class. Nothing serious, he’s fine.”

A flood of adrenaline washed away his grogginess. Scott swung his legs over the side of his bed and noted he was still dressed in his oxford business shirt and dress slacks. His belt, tie and jacket lay on the floor beside his shoes. The _floor?_

“What’s the damage?” Scott didn’t bother asking _What happened?_ He knew what had happened.

“A couple of fractured ribs. No internal organ damage.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s resting in the infirmary. Ground floor.” An outsider might have wondered why she specified the location. The infirmary in the sub-levels was attached to Jean’s med-lab and surgery and reserved for the seriously injured, who were invariably X-Men. The one on the ground floor was the domain of Lucia Campos, the nurse practitioner, and was attached to the school clinic.

“Thank you for letting me know. I’m going down to see him now.”

“I figured.” Her voice softened. “I know you think no one knows that you and Bobby are close, and I guess no one does, except me.”

“Thank you,” he said, touched by her concern. Their own close relationship had become strained; it felt good to be speaking familiarly with her again. “Wait. Did Jubilee get hurt too?”

“Jubes? No. Why are you asking?”

“I thought maybe they were sparring. Thank you,” he said, and hung up before she could question him further.

Hastily he put on his shoes and belt and left his room. He simply waved to the two staffers who looked at him curiously as he entered the hall, walked rapidly to the entrance to the service stairs and then ran down the stairs. His head was pounding and his heart was pounding and not from the exertion. Murderous rage rose in him like an oily black mist.

He burst through the concealed service door into the ground floor hallway and walked quickly to the infirmary.  It was the mansion's converted west gallery, with an enfilade of French doors making up the western wall and opening to a terrace. At this hour all the mansion’s west-facing rooms were aglow with evening light, but the curtains had been drawn in the infirmary and the electric lights had been switched on.

Lucia looked up and smiled maternally as he burst through the door. “I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Summers. I know you’re Bobby’s friend.”

A middle-aged woman, the nurse practitioner was one of the mansion’s very few human employees, working cheap in exchange for sanctuary for her obvious mutant daughter. As her daughter’s teacher, Scott knew her fairly well, and clearly she knew him better than he thought. Dammit, who else was aware of his relationship with Bobby? _Logan, obviously_.

Lucia pointed towards the lone occupied bed marooned in darkness at the far end of the infirmary. “You can visit with him, but don’t expect to get much sense out of him. I gave him a narcotic analgesic.”

“He was in a lot of pain?”

“Well, he’s not feeling anything right now, I can tell you.” She smiled again, good-humoredly, projecting reassurance. “I’m keeping him here overnight, but really, he’s fine. Two cracked ribs but no splintering, no lung damage. He’ll just have to take it easy for a while.”

Scott nodded and strode down the long narrow room to Bobby’s bedside. As he gripped the bed’s side rails, Bobby opened his eyes and looked up dopily. “Hey, Scott,” he slurred.

Without asking permission, Scott pulled back the bedsheet. For a long moment he absorbed the sight of the black and green bruising that encompassed the left side of Bobby’s torso from collar bone to hip bone. _And this is what Ororo and Lucia call “fine.”_

Scott dropped the sheet. The pounding in his head intensified.

“Scott –”

“You were sparring with Logan and you got hurt. Right?”

Bobby nodded. Constricted black pupils were almost swallowed up in blue irises. His face was pale and he breathed slowly and shallowly.

“He says you got hurt because you fucked up and it’s all your own fault. Everyone on the B Team says it’s your fault. _You_ think it’s your fault. It’s not, Bobby.”

Bobby’s eyes drooped shut. “I… screwed up…”

“No, you didn’t. And I’m getting you out of this house. You’re going to spend a semester overseas.”

And he’d thought Logan might _accidentally_ hurt Bobby. Scott damned himself for his naivety. Bobby was his friend, his ally, his little brother. _Might as well have painted a bullseye on Bobby’s back._

“Not… leaving you… alone here.”

Bobby lying in a hospital bed worrying about _him_. Scott dug his fingertips into his temples. “I’ll be fine. I promise you I’ll be the one who picks you up at the airport in January. This will all be over by January, Bobby, if not sooner. I promise.”

He whipped around at the sound of heeled shoes clacking on the infirmary’s linoleum floor.

“Hi,” Rogue said hesitantly. She looked uncomfortable but determined. “I just wanted to see how Bobby’s doin’.”

He nodded curtly. Since their trip to Salem Center, Rogue had kept her distance from him. They bumped into each other on the grounds and in the hallways, the dining room and the common areas, but she never prolonged their encounters and seemed ill at ease with him.     

She walked up to the other side of Bobby’s bed, reached through the guardrails and took his hand in her own gloved hand.

Bobby smiled faintly without opening his eyes. “Doin’ jus’ fine,” he mumbled. A moment later he started snoring.

“Oh, wow.” Rogue peered at him. “The nurse gave you the good stuff, huh?” She glanced at Scott uneasily. “Hey, um, Scott. What’s up with your glasses?”

“What about them?”

“I’ve never seen ’em lit up like that before.”

“Like what?”

“Like one of those neon signs in Times Square.”

Puzzled, Scott crossed the narrow room and examined his reflection in a pane of glass set in one of the French doors. He expected to see the usual dying-ember glow of his glasses. Instead he was confronted with brilliantly blazing lenses, strobing as if bursts of lightning were erupting behind the ruby-quartz. _What fresh hell is this?_

Returning to Bobby’s bedside, he said, “I’m just getting a headache.” He massaged his temples again. His migraine medicine was upstairs in his room; he supposed he’d have to ask Lucia for a shot.

Her expression warmed. She said sympathetically. “I know you and Bobby are friends. I guess you got a good scare.”

Yes, apparently _everyone_ knew about his relationship with Bobby. “No shit. It’s a fucking miracle he doesn’t have a collapsed lung.”

Scott rarely employed foul language; it reminded him of the people he had escaped from, the life he had escaped from. Rogue didn’t know him well, but she knew he didn’t curse. Her eyes widened. 

“It was an accident, Scott.”

“This kind of injury is not acceptable in training.”

“We have to train like we fight. Sometimes people are gonna get hurt.”

“If you get your people hurt in training, they’re not going to be available for real-world missions. No one got hurt when I was in charge of training.”

Rogue hesitated. “Logan says….” She paused, apparently struggling to translate the man’s invectives into politer language. “He says you didn’t push people hard enough. And he says Bobby….” She fell silent.

“Oh, let me guess. He says Bobby’s a _pussy_ , right?” Scott gripped his aching head between his hands. “What the hell is wrong with you, Rogue? How can you believe this was Bobby’s fault? Are you that far up inside Logan’s ass?”

_“What?”_

“So you think I must be a shitty martial arts instructor because no one got hurt in my classes? Logan doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing and this is the proof of it.”

“Logan used to fight for a living’, I think he knows more about fightin’ than you do!”

“That WrestleMania crap he does? You think that’s fighting?”

“Scott….”

“Hell, he’s not good enough for WrestleMania. Those guys know how to pull their punches and not put each other in the hospital.”

“ _Scott._ Your _eyes_.”

“Do you ever have an opinion that Logan didn’t put into your head? You’re a child. You’re _pathetic_.”

Angrily Scott strode away from Rogue, down the long narrow room and past Lucia, who stared at him as if she’d never seen a man with glowing red glasses before. He collided with Logan in the infirmary’s doorway.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?” Scott snarled.

“He’s my trainee and I’m checking up on him.” Logan stared. “Summers, what the fuck is wrong with your eyes?”

“The same fucking thing that’s been wrong with them for ten years. Do not go near Bobby. Stay the fuck away from him or I will fucking kill you.”

_“Scott.”_

He swung about to face Rogue. Behind her stood Lucia. Both looked frightened.

“Scott, there’s some kinda red fog around your face.”

“Summers, are your goddamn glasses cracking?” Logan didn’t wait for a reply. “Lucia, open one of those glass doors over there, I’m taking him outside. Get Storm.”

“What –”

“Summers, shut your mouth and _shut your eyes_.”

Shocked, Scott shut his eyes. He felt Logan pick him up and sling him over one shoulder and run.

The sticky air of a hot August night enveloped him. The breath was knocked out of him with each of Logan’s strides. His head bounced against Logan’s back and the headache rolled around inside his skull like a thunderstorm.

“Shit!” Abruptly Logan dropped him. Scott fell several feet and hit the ground. Automatically he tucked and rolled. His glasses went flying off his face.

“Logan –”

“I can’t hang onto him anymore. Marie, get the hell away from him. Marie, _come on._ ”

Scott scrambled to his knees. He put his arms behind him, pressed his palms flat to the lawn and tilted his head back. The urge to open his eyes was overwhelming, as if Niagara Falls were pent up behind his eyelids. All his rage had been transformed into terror. _I’ve lost it,_ he thought, horrified. He had lost his temper and he had lost control of his powers. And then his eyes involuntarily opened.

A tornado of energy erupted into the evening sky, a coruscating storm of red and gold and black. Light as air, fluid as water, viscous as glycerin, pure concussive force escaped its native dimension, burst out of a cosmos where kinetic energy had form and mass and weight. It poured through him as if he were a cracked dam and flooded his tiny corner of the Einsteinian universe.

_It’s going to tear my eyes out. It’s going to tear my face off. It’s going to tear my head off._ In his peripheral vision he saw that his body was enveloped in a red haze and he realized the energy was seeping out of his skin.

He heard screaming, shrieking, shouting, a multitude of voices, pounding footsteps. He heard Logan yelling. He heard Ororo yelling. He wondered why he didn’t hear Charles yelling telepathically and remembered that Charles was in Atlanta with his orderly and executive assistant.

The tornado towered ever higher above him, broadened, swirled and blazed and glittered. It was terrifying and magnificent and he could nothing to direct it, nothing to contain it. He had finally and cataclysmically lost control. _I’m going to die. I’m going to explode. I’m going to kill everyone in the Institute and maybe everyone in Salem Center._ Ororo needed to kill him. Why hadn’t Ororo killed him yet?

The screaming behind his back redoubled. _No no no stay back stay away don’t Jean don’t –_

And Jean was floating high above him, flying in the middle of the kinetic energy storm, body pummeled by concussive force and remaining intact. Face contorting in wild exaltation, she flung open her arms and shrieked an inhuman cry. 

The tornado bent towards her, poured into her, like light pouring into a black hole. She was eating it, drinking it, inhaling it, and he knew, then. He recognized the Jean-Thing, the same thing that had almost torn apart his brain looking for the source of his optic blast, like a spoilt child tearing apart a bud looking for the rose.

_I’m feeding this thing._ Horror flooded Scott. _Ororo, you have to kill me, you have to kill me right the fuck_ now _._

But no lightning bolt arrowed out of the sky. The Jean-Thing continued to cannibalize him and the kinetic energy storm diminished in intensity every second. The glittering tornado contracted, shrank, became a geyser, became a fountain. He heard Ororo shouting. _Everybody in the sublevels right now, cops feds helicopters…._

The tattered wisps of free-floating concussive force blinked out of existence and Scott fell over onto his side.

He felt the bristly grass tickling his cheek and smelled the odor of the sun-baked lawn. His arms and legs twitched uncontrollably; he had no conscious control of his body. He stared, awestruck, at the tiffany-blue and lemon-yellow sky before his eyes drooped shut of their own volition. He hated himself for being too sleepy to watch the sun set.   

“He’s breathing! Pete, stop, he’s breathing! Scott, Scott, _Scott_.”

Ororo was kneeling beside him, her expression frenzied. Piotr knelt on his other side, clasped hands resting on Scott’s breastbone.

Without moving his head, he shifted his gaze and saw a bare-chested Logan kneeling several yards away. The Jean-Thing lay limply in his arms, her naked torso concealed under Logan’s shirt. He shifted his gaze again and took in the stunned audience immediately surrounding him. He was naked as well and no one was staring anywhere but at his face. He felt weak enough to die, apparently he _had_ died, and he knew this should matter to him, but nothing mattered more than Jubilee’s canary-yellow jacket, Hisako’s turquoise dress, Rogue’s paisley scarf, John Allerdyce’s tie-dyed shirt. He was seeing true, pure colors for the first time since he had put on his red shades.

He heard more urgent chatter, _cops, feds,_ and he dragged his attention back to the present emergency. Cops were coming. Feds would follow. They would seize this opportunity to search the grounds, swarm the mansion. He tried to say _My visors and uniforms are in the wardrobe in my bedroom._ His battle visors and his uniforms, which inextricably linked the Xavier Institute to the Liberty Island imbroglio.   

“Scott? What? What are you trying to say?” Ororo stooped her head, put her ear directly against his mouth.

He breathed, “Vi…sor.”

“Visor? You want your visor?” Ororo turned her head and stared at him. To Scott’s intense relief, understanding suddenly bloomed in her face. “Scott, where are your visors? What did you do with them?”

“Bed…room.”

“Jubilee, go to Cyke’s bedroom right now and get his visors and uniforms. Bring them to the sublevels. Rogue, John, go the conservatory and get the grow lamps – yes goddammit the _grow lamps_ – and bring them to the sublevels. Pete, take Scott. Logan, take Jean….”

Scott tuned out. The sun had vanished below the western horizon and he focused on the colors fading finally from the clouds.


	14. Chapter 14

_Now, to get safely through this perpetual conflict with the unexpected, two qualities are indispensable: in the first place, an understanding which, even in the midst of intense obscurity, is not without some trace of the inner light which leads to the truth; and then the courage to follow this faint light. –_ Carl von Clausewitz, _On War_ : Book 1, Chapter 3, _Military Genius._

Scott swam awake in the infirmary in the sublevels. He recognized the antiseptic smells and the sounds, the beeps and creaks and rattles and mechanical sighs. Breathing was uncomfortable; his chest ached as if he had taken a few good punches. He tried to raise his right hand and pull off the surgical tape and gauze pads he felt pressing down over his eyes.

“Mr. Summers, it’s me.” Lucia Campos’ voice. “You can’t move your arm right now, okay? I taped your arm down. You’ve got an IV going. Sugar water and a pinch of salt. And you’ve got a catheter, too. I’m sure you’re thrilled to hear that.”

 _Lactated Ringer’s solution with five percent dextrose_ , Scott thought hazily. Dextrose, sodium, potassium, calcium, chloride. He’d been team leader long enough to have watched Jean treat injured teammates and rescued mutants.

He could also feel the light of the full-spectrum grow lamps caressing his skin. He felt sunlight the way other people felt wind but had never found the words to describe the sensation.

“Mr. Summers, can you hear me? Can you talk?”

“Uh huh.”

“Good, good. I don’t know how much you remember, but you had a, a power flare-up. But you didn’t hurt anybody. Or anything. You’re down here in the sublevels now.”

“Bobby….”

“Bobby’s down here too. Poor Bobby, he slept through all the excitement. He’s gonna hate that.”

 _The Jean-Thing._ “Jean,” he whispered.

“Dr. Grey’s here too. She’s fine, Mr. Summers. She’s sleeping.”

The Jean-Thing was in the house? “Storm.” Talking was tiring work. “I need Storm.”

“I’ll let her know you’re awake. I don’t know how soon she can come in to talk to you. Rogue? I’m stepping out for a moment.”

A pause. A soft voice said, “Hey, there.”

“Rogue?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m helping Mrs. Campos out.”

“What’s going on?”

“Everyone’s down here in the sublevels, except for Mr. Anderson. He stayed topside to meet the police.”

Anderson? Scott pictured the mansion’s tall, lean, sixtyish majordomo. He was another one of the Institute’s few human employees and had deftly managed Charles Xavier’s household for thirty years, even when the population ballooned to over one hundred residents. And while Anderson was the very best at what he did, it seemed incredible that the X-Men should station a human at the Institute’s front door like Leonidas at the pass.

“Can you take the bandages off my eyes?” He formed the words laboriously.

“Uh, well, I think that’s a little above my pay-grade.” She laughed a trifle unsteadily.  “I don’t think anyone’s gonna fight you for the remote anymore.”

“Rogue… I said some very rude things to you. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe I needed to hear it.” Rogue paused. “When you were out on the lawn…. When you lost it, everybody started runnin’ ‘round like chickens with their heads cut off, screamin’ and cryin’, well, not Storm and Logan, but honestly? It’s like the only people who didn’t lose their shit was the humans, like Mr. Anderson and Mrs. Campos. And this is a school for mutants, and everybody was actin’ like that.”

To his surprise and gratification, he felt Rogue’s gloved hand grip his.

“And then Logan said to put you down. That’s exactly what he said, like you were a mad dog. Put you down. Storm said no and he said she was a pussy and he would do it himself. You’re right, that _is_ his favorite word, isn’t it.” Rogue laughed humorlessly.

Of course Scott did not say _Logan absolutely made the right call_. He murmured, “So why am I still alive?”

“Dr. Grey. She came bustin’ out of the house and she just, just flapped her hand at Logan and he went flyin’ about thirty feet, like somebody shot him out of a cannon. And then she jumped up into the air and _she_ went flyin’.” Rogue’s voice was tinged with awe. “I mean, I know about her TK. I guess she was just holdin’ herself up and movin’ herself around? But the way Storm was lookin’ at her, I could tell Storm was just as knocked back as the rest of us. I guess Dr. Grey’s never done that before, has she?”

“No.” If Jean Grey could perform such feats, she would have wrapped up the Liberty Island mission singlehandedly in a few minutes. No, it had been the Jean-Thing on the lawn, lured out of hiding, drawn to the feast. The Jean-Thing had been weak and starved, but it had fed well on him, like a vampire, and Scott knew it would stalk him for more.

“I never thought I’d say this, ever, but I am so disappointed with Logan.” Rogue’s voice trembled. “This is supposed to be a place where mutants are safe, but you ‘n me, we’re not any safer here than anywhere else, are we. It’s like you said, we’re the only two people here who can’t control their powers, and everybody’s scared of us, other _mutants_ are scared of us, and, and if they don’t think twice about puttin’ Cyclops down, when do they decide to put _me_ down?”

Scott squeezed her hand comfortingly. He knew, now, that Rogue was his for the taking, but he did not indulge in a moment of gratification. His Logan problem had temporarily receded in importance.

Scott heard a door bang open and the sounds of shoes quick-stepping across the infirmary’s linoleum floor. He felt Rogue hastily snatch her hand from his.

“Scott?” Ororo’s voice. “Rogue, can you give us a few minutes?”

“Sure. Sure. I’ll go find Mrs. Campos.”

“Scott!” He felt Ororo’s hands grip his shoulders. “Scott….”

“I’m okay. It’s okay.”

“You _died_ , Scott, you died out there on the lawn and we had to do CPR, and you died again when we got you inside, you just kept goddamn dying until we got the grow lamps going and the IV –”

“I’m okay now,” Scott repeatedly soothingly, although he rather thought he might be the one in need of soothing. “It’s all right now.”

“Okay, okay.” She sighed tremulously, kissed his cheek and let go of his shoulders. “God, don’t you ever die on me again, you inconsiderate bastard.”

“I’ll try not to…. Can you take the bandages off my eyes?” He could almost hear her hesitation. “Put the visor on me? It’s better than a couple of gauze pads.”

“Yeah, okay.” He heard her move away, open the infirmary door and address an unknown person. “Would you please get one of Cyke’s visors? Thanks.”

Ororo shut the door and return to his bedside. “Your visors and your uniforms are in your locker. And your spare glasses and sleep goggles.”

“Ro… aren’t my powers gone?” He was surprised by the quaver in his own voice.

“I don’t know. I mean, they were. I don’t know if they still are.”

Scott reached into himself, concentrated intently, and felt something, a subliminal rattling of his bones, like the reverberation of a submarine engine operating under tons of water. He knew, then, that he was still Cyclops, and he didn’t know if he were sorry or glad. He thought of the vibrant colors of sunset, of clothes.

“Let’s just assume they’ll come back,” Ororo said with determined cheerfulness. “You should keep the visor on, even in bed.” She added, “Rogue picked up your glasses off the lawn. The lenses are cracked.”

Scott couldn’t think what to say to that. He couldn’t think what Hank McCoy would say to that. Hank had cultivated the ruby-quartz in his lab and painstakingly cut and polished the stone into lenses.

“I’m glad she had the presence of mind to look for your glasses. I’m sure the FBI is vacuuming the lawn even as we speak.”

“The FBI’s here?”

“Jesus, who isn’t here. The entire police forces of Salem Center, Sleepy Hollow and Tarrytown… the state patrol, the county sheriff, EMS, several fire departments… news choppers, police choppers, Forest Service choppers….”

“The Forest Service?”

“And the Weather Channel.” Ororo sighed; he could hear her barely controlled aggravation. “Kitty’s monitoring the shitshow from the War Room.”

Scott did not say _I’m sorry_ because he knew how ludicrously inadequate the apology would be. He had created more of a clusterfuck than any student ever had.

“And the News Four chopper flew over the Jenkins estate and Mr. Jenkins shot them down with a Colt forty-five revolver.”

“Mr. Jenkins must be ninety years old by now.”

“If he didn’t live next door to Charles Xavier he would’ve died of boredom twenty years ago…. So we get everyone into the sublevels just as the circus rolls up the drive and the helicopters start flying around like Vietnam Part Two, Electric Boogaloo. While you were still doin’ your thing, Anderson called the gatehouse and told Mario to open the gate and leave it open and get his ass out of there. And then he called Charles and then he called Warren. Whatever we’re paying that guy, it’s not enough.”

“Rogue said he’s upstairs? He’s the only one upstairs?”

“Yes. Oh, God, I fucking hate myself. All the times I’ve told Charles we should fire all the human employees, that they can’t be trusted. And there’s our butler upstairs fending off the barbarian hordes and Lucia down here with us. I am one bigoted piece of crap, you know that?”

“I love you anyway. But why Anderson?” Scott carefully kept any suggestion of criticism out of his voice.

“Well, I knew for sure I wasn’t gonna let Logan stay upstairs so he could start World War Three. So I was gonna stay, and then Anderson said the cops and the feds were gonna dogpile on whoever they found so it should be a human they found. He said strategically it was the way to go, yes our butler used the word _strategic_ , and you know what, I knew he was right.”

Scott turned this over in his mind and reluctantly agreed. He hated the thought of staking out a human employee like a sacrificial goat but _strategically_ it made sense. Ever since Liberty Island, the Institute had been under surveillance, its senior staff under suspicion, not because the feds had deduced the identity of the X-Men but because Erik Lehnsherr had been the Institute’s co-founder and long-time resident. The FBI would welcome the opportunity to burst into the mansion with the Salem Center police and illegally question and perhaps detain anyone they found.

“How are we explaining the empty house?”

Belatedly Scott realized he had fallen into his accustomed role. He was acting the part of the team leader. He was debriefing Storm, when he had no right to question her, when she owed him not a scrap of information. But Storm readily answered him, as if she too were unable to break the habit of six years.

“The cover story is we’re closed. The kids are at Warren’s beach shack and the staff is taking a vacation day. Warren’s probably got a lawyer lying in wait at his own gatehouse…. And he told Anderson he was sending a lawyer up here too, a guy named Franklin Nelson. And a security team to de-bug the house and grounds. You know these fuckers are gonna plant audio and video bugs. I’m sure they’re planting spyware in the school server too.”

Scott groaned in shame. He was a teacher and he had caused more trouble, expense and chaos at the school than any child ever had. He didn’t think he would be fired or required to move off campus because he had lost control of his powers; that would send the entirely wrong message to the adolescents. But he could almost hear Warren saying dryly _Our resources are for students, not teachers._

Ororo patted Scott’s shoulder. “There’s nothing for the cops or the feds to find. That was one hell of a light show you put on, but you didn’t do any damage. The most they can do is fine us for illegal fireworks.”

“I gave them an excuse to search the grounds and the house.” Now the U.S. government knew where the classrooms were, where the bedrooms were, how long and wide each hallway was, how many steps there were on the central staircase, the location of every door and whether it swung in or out….

A knock on the door. “Storm? I’ve got Cyke’s visor.”

Scott heard Ororo walk across the room. “Thanks, Jubes.”

“Um, how is he doing?”

“He’s awake, he’s doing well, not ready for visitors but he’s doing well. Thank you.”

Scott heard the door close and Ororo cross the room again to his bedside.

“Okay, bro, shut your eyes, I’m gonna peel the surgical tape off. By the way, that was the president of your fan club at the door.”

“It’s nice to have fans.”

“Well, you probably have more today than you did yesterday. I don’t know if you know this, but out on the lawn you managed to blast all your own clothes off. So now everybody knows Mr. Summers is packin’ heat under those chinos.”

Scott huffed a silent laugh.

“Okay, I’m lifting the bandages off now.”

Scott screwed his eyes shut. He could all but smell Ororo’s nervousness. A moment later he felt the visor press down on his face.

“Okay, I’ve got it now.” Scott raised his left hand and adjusted the visor, secured it in place. He wondered why Lucia had started the IV in his right arm but supposed she had her reasons. When he was satisfied with the visor’s fit, he opened his eyes.

He found himself looking up directly into a ceiling light and winced. He looked down at himself; he was naked except for a folded sheet across his hips, and his body was bathed in the light of the grow lamps. He turned his head and looked at Ororo through the strip of ruby-quartz. Her white hair looked pink, her blue eyes looked purple, her brown skin looked burgundy. Her dress looked brown, which meant it was green. He sighed internally. The muddy, distorted colors to which he had thought he was resigned. Jean had nearly always worn red for him. He should have known there was trouble in paradise when she’d started wearing other colors.

Ororo said softly, “I’d forgotten what your eyes looked like.”

“Is the ruby-quartz lit up?”

“Can’t tell. Let me turn off the lights.” She moved away and a moment later the grow lamps and overhead lights snapped off. She reappeared by his bedside and leaned over him.

“Hmm…. it’s really faint. But yeah.” She smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t tear up your mutie card just yet.”

Scott forced himself to smile back as Ororo turned the grow lamps back on. Ororo was the wrong person in whom to confide one’s ambivalence about being a mutant.

He wiggled his fingers until Ororo took his hand. He chose his next words carefully. “Everything that happened was my own fault. I lost my temper and I lost control.”

“Oh, Scott….”

“I know Logan was going to kill me and I don’t fault him for making that decision. It was the right call.”

“It was _not_. Shit looked scary as hell but you weren’t hurting anyone or anything and I figured you’d run out of steam if we just waited long enough. And Jean…. Scott, that was the damnedest thing I ever saw. I know you said her TK was getting stronger, but _damn_.” Ororo sounded as awed as Rogue had. “I don’t know if you remember, but she was _flying_. She flew right into your optic blast and it didn’t hurt her. It was incredible.”

 _The Jean-Thing._ How could he have wasted precious minutes chattering about trivialities when the Jean-Thing was in the house? He turned his head to the left and suppressed a thrill of horror. The Jean-Thing was actually in the infirmary with him, with Bobby, with Ororo. It slept, or appeared to sleep, in a hospital bed at the other end of the room. Its cheeks were pink; its red hair was fanned out over a pillow; it inhaled and exhaled rhythmically. It looked like a person; it looked like Jean, and this infuriated him.

“I had no idea she had developed her TK to that extent. I’m sure Charles doesn’t know either. It looked like she was containing the blast and pushing it back into you.”

“No. No, that’s not what happened.”

“No?”

“It was _eating_ the blast. It was, it was _feeding_.”

_“What?”_

“It was weak before but it’s not weak now. It may be too strong already.”

“Scott, what are you talking about? I’m talking about Jean.”

“It’s not Jean! We left Jean on Liberty Island and we have to go back!”

“Oh, _Scott_.”

“ _It’s not Jean_. It’s a _thing_ and we brought it home with us! Jean is still on Liberty Island!”

“Scott! I know it’s killing you to lose Jean, but you cannot start pretending the real Jean is on Liberty Island and a pod person is fucking Logan.”

“It’s not Jean!”

“Okay. Okay, I am going to put a stop to this right now.”

Ororo disappeared from his line of sight and he heard the infirmary door open. Sounds drifted in: muffled adult conversation, crying babies, querulous toddlers. Moments later he heard footsteps reentering the infirmary and the door closing. Ororo and Lucia appeared on his right. Logan appeared on his left.

Scott heard _beepbeepbeepbeepbeep_ and realized it was the sound of a galloping heart monitor, his heart monitor. Logan promptly stepped back. Ororo grabbed Scott’s right arm, as if she were afraid he might reach for the dial of his visor, and with her other hand she pointed across the infirmary. “Logan, is that Jean?”

“What?”

“Is that Jean?”

Logan didn’t even look over his shoulder. “Sure it is.”

“Okay, Scott? You hear that? That’s Jean, right over there, in that bed. Jean is not on Liberty Island. We did not leave her behind.”

Logan’s forehead wrinkled. He looked curiously at Scott. “We didn’t accidentally bring Mystique home, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Scott lay still while his thoughts raced furiously. He didn’t disbelieve Logan. He knew Logan had a dog’s sense of smell. But he also knew the creature _wasn’t_ Jean, and if Logan said it _was_ – that meant Jean and the Jean-Thing were one and the same. Jean was the Jean-Thing.

 _I was not in love with a pod person for ten years._ If he entertained that possibility, he would lose his mind. His relationship with Jean had been real. _Jean_ had been real. She had loved him and now she was gone. She had been gone for months, and to his eternal discredit, to his everlasting shame, he had held her culpable of the Thing’s every transgression. He hadn’t even noticed the moment when she had transmogrified into the Thing….

“Liberty Island,” he said. “That’s when everything changed.”

“Changed, how?”

“Erik’s machine. The energy wave. It rolled right over us.”

“Yes, but it didn’t affect us,” Ororo said soothingly, “it only affected humans.”

 _“What?”_ Scott struggled to sit up. “No! No!”

“Scott –”

“No! No! No!”

“Summers.” Logan was leaning forward, fists clenching the siderail of the hospital bed. “Why don’t you think that’s Jean?”

“Because he’s delusional,” Lucia said briskly. “Low blood sugar, low electrolytes. Tomorrow he won’t even remember this.”

 _I have to kill it,_ he thought, and immediately consigned the thought to the dungeon of his mind-castle. If Charles Xavier knew what he planned, Scott Summers would wake up somewhere in the Midwest with a new name and a new identity and ten years’ worth of false memories.

Ororo caught hold of Lucia’s shoulder and drew her aside. The two women conferred in whispers.

 _Except I can’t kill it._ Just hours ago he had thrown everything he had at the creature and it had emerged unscathed and more powerful than before. He did not dare let the Thing feed on him again.

“ _Summers_.”

And didn’t it just figure? The only person willing to listen to him was Logan. But maybe, maybe the Thing couldn’t reach into Logan’s metal head. Maybe Logan would remember, when everyone else, including Scott, had forgotten.

“It’s not Jean,” Scott whispered. “And you have to kill it.”

Lucia was back, injecting something into Scott’s IV line. As the drug-induced darkness sucked Scott down, he caught a glimpse of Logan’s face contorted in horror and despair.


	15. Chapter 15

_The surprise is, therefore, the medium to numerical superiority; but it is besides that also to be regarded as a substantive principle in itself, on account of its moral effect. When it is successful in a high degree, confusion and broken courage in the enemy’s ranks are the consequences –_ Carl von Clausewitz, _On War_ : Book 3, Chapter 9, _The Surprise_

Jubilation Lee adored Scott Summers and did not care who knew it. She proclaimed her devotion at every opportunity and no amount of mockery, pleading or reasoning could deter her. She was his love slave, whether he wanted one or not. It was with some trepidation, then, that Scott approached her as she sat on the steps of mansion’s western terrace.

“Jubilee?”

She looked up listlessly and Scott repressed a feeling of dismay. Normally at the sight of Mr. Summers her eyes gleamed with unholy mischief. He hardly recognized the dull-eyed girl who sat quietly, almost motionlessly, except for picking repetitively at the hem of her miniskirt. The remains of a box lunch lay at her feet and he wondered why she had chosen to eat outside instead of in the dining hall.

He indicated the spot on the step next to her. “May I?”

Never before had Scott voluntarily seated himself within fifteen feet of Jubilee, but his request merely generated a subdued “Yeah, sure.”

Scott lowered himself onto the stone steps of the terrace. It seemed grimly hilarious, now, that Jean used to complain about Scott’s teen admirers flashing their cleavage and panties at him. He wondered, now, when it was too late to matter, if his groupies had played any part in Jean’s initial decision to _flirt_ with Logan. It had never occurred to him that Jean might have felt insecure and that perhaps she had wanted to make Scott feel as insecure as she did.

He sat quietly beside Jubilee. September had just arrived but hot, humid air enclosed them as thickly as a wool blanket, and clouds piled up on the horizon, threatening yet another evening thunderstorm. It wrung his heart to see Jubilee perched on the steps as still and silent as an injured bird, and belatedly he wondered where her entourage was. Jubilee was the social maven and fashion dictator of Mutant High and her classmates customarily buzzed around her like honey bees around their queen.

“I’m glad you feel better.”

“Yes, thank you.” He paused. “And thank you for getting all the incriminating evidence out of my room before the FBI searched the house. You’re the reason I’m not in jail right now.”

“I didn’t think of it. It was Storm.”

“And I know you went back upstairs and helped carry the little kids down to the sublevels.”

“Everyone on the B Team did.”

“I still get to be grateful.”

Jubilee sighed like a tired old woman. Surprised, Scott turned his head and looked at her. She turned her head and looked at him.

“This is serious shit, isn’t it. I used to tell myself it was just like Junior ROTC at the public school in Salem Center. But it’s not, is it.”

“No.”

“I told Storm I don’t want to be on the B Team anymore.”

 _Ah._ Scott nodded.

Jubilee spoke in a rush. “I want a life, you know? I want to go to F.I.T. and I want to design clothes. I want to get married to somebody and have kids. And I _don’t_ want the FBI busting into my house.”

“You don’t have to convince me. I completely understand.”

“Right! I mean, even you don’t want to be on the team anymore.”

He nodded again. “I completely support your decision.”

“Well, that makes you the only one. People think I’m a chickenshit. They’re calling _you_ a chickenshit! Did you know that?”

For the _n_ th time, Scott regretted giving six years of his life to the X-ingrates. “No, but I’m not surprised.”

“They think we’re a couple of traitors. A couple of cowards and traitors.”

“There is nothing wrong with wanting a normal life.” Which was not why he had quit the A Team, but he was not going to burden Jubilee with his Logan problem. “And if you become a famous clothes designer, you’ll be doing just as much for our people as the X-Men.”

A smile trembled on her lips. “Really?”

“Yes.” Scott did something he normally never would have dared to do – he patted her arm. “I came out here looking for you because I wanted to ask you something. I’m not promising anything, I’m just asking. Would you be interested in doing a semester overseas in China?”

“China?”

He was glad to see a spark of curiosity in her eyes. “Uh huh. Do some sightseeing. Dig up your family roots. Learn how to speak Mandarin.”

“I already know how to speak Mandarin.”

“I have it on good authority you sound like Kwai Chang Caine.”

“That’s mean, Mr. Summers.” But she smiled.

“So if I could make it happen, would you be interested?”

Jubilee’s smile faded. “Do I need to go study Mandarin in China like Bobby needed to go study French in Quebec?”

Scott paused. Sometimes he forgot how intelligent and perceptive Jubilee really was. She worked so hard at seeming to be an airhead.

“Yes,” he said finally.

Jubilee looked away. “There’s some bad juju around here, I can just feel it. I had this freaky dream about the Army busting in and dragging me out of bed and taking me away….”

“That’s just a reaction to having the police and the FBI in the house.”

 _Just_. It hurt to think that Jubilee and the other students had lost their sense of security. _Because of me._ Now they knew the mansion was not the inviolate sanctuary it appeared to be. The enemy had been in their bedrooms, pawed through their underwear. The enemy had invaded their home and had been driven out not by the X-Men but by a pudgy lawyer named Franklin Nelson. But Scott knew he could not allow himself to dwell on these rage-inducing thoughts. One day he would be ready to launch the mutant revolution. Today was not that day.

Jubilee scuffed the toe of her shoe against the stone step. Apropos of nothing, she said, “Last week was the Hungry Ghost festival.”

“Oh…. I don’t know what that is.” A rock band?

“I guess you wouldn’t. Why would you. I remember it from when I was a kid. It’s supposed to be the day when… when the dead come back. Like, people who got killed in accidents, or they got murdered, or they committed suicide. They’re pissed off and they’re looking to make trouble. And they’re hungry. When I was a kid, my parents would put food out on the curb for them.”

She lapsed into silence.

“Jubilee,” Scott said gently, “why are you telling me this?”

She shrugged helplessly.

“Do you think your parents came back last week?” Jubilee’s parents had been immigrants, restaurant owners, murdered for failing to pay protection. “We can put out some food for them tonight. You and me.”

“I didn’t even think about them last week. I didn’t even think about putting out food. I never do any of that superstitious stuff they used to do. I mean, I’m American, I don’t believe in that crap.”

Again Scott did something he normally would never have done. He took Jubilee’s hand. “My parents died in an accident. But I can’t imagine them wanting to make trouble for me. And I can’t imagine your parents wanting to make trouble for you. They loved you, Jubes. You know that.”

“But I feel like, I keep feeling like, there’s a hungry ghost hanging around this house.”

“All the more reason for you to go away for a while.” He released her hand and stood. “Give me some time to make it happen.” Naturally he had the packet ready to drop on Ororo’s desk. And unbeknownst to Jubilee, she already had the visa, because on the day Logan had taken over the self-defense classes, Scott had liberated Jubilee’s and Bobby’s passports from the fireproof safe in which all the children’s important papers were kept.

Scott smiled down at her. “And I’ll make you a promise. I promise I’ll feed the ghost while you’re gone. When it gets enough to eat, it’ll go away. Right?”

***

Mr. Albert Jenkins’ case had been rushed to trial because he insisted on taking up residence in one of Salem Center’s two jail cells, despite the police chief’s best efforts to dissuade him. The Honorable William Smythe ordered Mr. Jenkins to hand over his revolver, which he did so meekly that everyone immediately suspected he had a hidden arsenal on his estate. The Honorable Smythe then dismissed the case, either because Mr. Jenkins was ninety years old or because News Four had run a scathing segment on Smythe two years previously. The News Four legal team protested that Mr. Jenkins should at least be required to pay for their downed helicopter. Mr. Jenkins argued that he was personally responsible for the leap in News Four’s ratings and revenue and as such the program owed him compensation rather than the reverse. The Honorable Smythe concurred and ordered News Four to pay Mr. Jenkins one hundred dollars.

“When I grow up, I wanna be Mr. Jenkins,” Ororo said. “Makes me feel bad about the blizzard of ’93.”

“It was the Fourth of July and you ruined our barbecue too.”

“Let it gooooooo.”

“You gonna do something about the thunderstorm we’re supposed to get today?”

“No. I am not your weather bitch. If you want perfect weather, move to San Diego.” She waved the binder at Scott. “Yes, of course I’ll present this to Charles. I mean, you’ve done all the spadework. Jubilee should be damned grateful.”

Gathering the funding for Jubilee’s semester overseas had been a tiresome but ultimately successful process. It was another endeavor he had begun on the day Logan took over the self-defense classes. She was a tragic orphan adrift in America, or so Scott portrayed her, and it didn’t hurt that she was pretty. Scott had played upon the sympathy of various Chinese-American politicians and civic leaders, obtained grants from the Chinese-American Restaurant League and the Chinese-American Social Welfare Council, and bedded the (male) president of the Lee Family Benevolent Union. Scott had judged it best not to ask the benevolent Mr. Lee about the gunmen stationed in and around his home. He had pocketed the roll of hundred-dollar bills and Mr. Lee had checked three items off his bucket list: fucking a guy, fucking a _gwai lo,_ and fucking a mutie.

Scott had thought the most arduous part of arranging Jubilee’s trip would be gaining the concurrence of Charles Xavier, her legal guardian, but now he knew that wouldn’t be difficult at all. Jubilee had refused to join his mutant strike force so Charles would not want to waste any more resources on her. Scott thought it quite possible Charles wouldn’t take her back when she returned at Christmas.

Scott had funded Bobby’s trip with a large check drawn on his own account because he had seen no other way to make it happen. Bobby wasn’t an impoverished orphan but he might as well have been because he was saddled with two of the most selfish parents it had ever been Scott’s displeasure to meet. Mrs. Drake drove a $40,000 SUV, Mr. Drake drove a $60,000 truck, they lived in a McMansion in the Boston suburbs and took a vacation-of-a-lifetime at least once a year, but Bobby’s brother was marooned in an abysmal public school and Bobby had been allowed to attend the Institute only after Charles had resignedly offered a full scholarship. Mr. and Mrs. Drake had been perfectly willing to sign the documents Scott fed-ex’d to them as soon as he had assured them the Institute would pay for Bobby’s semester in Quebec, and Ororo had agreed to hold Bobby’s place at Mutant High so that he could take advantage of the wonderful opportunity his parents had arranged for him.

Scott wanted Jubilee and Bobby off the battlefield so they would not become collateral damage in his war with Logan, but naturally he said nothing of this to Ororo. He sat in the visitor’s chair in Ororo’s office and said merely, “I understand the other kids are ostracizing Jubes for quitting the B Team. It’s probably for the best if she spends a semester away.”

Ororo rolled her eyes. “She quit before Logan kicked her off. You know she’s never been serious about developing her powers. She was on the team only because you insisted on giving her a spot, and then you let her goof off. She’s a plasma generator but all she wants to do is put on fireworks shows for her friends.”

“All John Allerdyce wants to do is set people on fire, but I guess you and Logan don’t have a problem with that.” Ororo started to speak and Scott interrupted her. “Jubilee is fully in control of her powers and ready to integrate with human society, which I thought was the point of an Xavier Institute education. Or are we finally admitting the real reason why Charles Xavier founded this school? Is this place really just a terrorist training camp after all?”

“Maybe you’ve forgotten that Charles took you in when he thought you were a gamma-class mutant. We’re not terrorists, Scott, and if I have to tell you that, it’s just as well you quit the team. Maybe it’s time for you to quit the school.”

They stared at each other, mutually shocked, neither one quite sure how they had managed to unzip their ten-year relationship faster than the San Andreas fault.

Scott looked away from Ororo, his _de facto_ little sister, his best friend, the woman who had saved his life not just recently but many times in the field. He got to his feet.

“Please give the proposal to Charles,” he said, and walked out of her office.

***

 _We were always going to become enemies,_ Scott thought dully. It was inevitable, because the war with humanity was inevitable and he already knew which side Ororo had picked. He had always known that one day he and Ororo would meet on the field of battle and that she would be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with dangerous idiots like Tony Stark and the faux-mutants whom he hated more passionately than he hated Graydon Creed. How he loathed Steve Rogers and Reed Richards, Jessica Jones and Luke Cage, the ones who got to blame a science project gone awry for their “condition,” the ones who made him want to put his fist through the television every time they bleated some variant of _I’m not a mutant!_

He had always known Ororo was a traitor to her species, that her occasional bigoted remarks signified nothing, that her “mutant power” schtick signified less than nothing. When the war broke out, she would stand with the humans and fight her own people. Scott didn’t blame her. She had been brainwashed by Charles Xavier. But he had hoped to enjoy her friendship and love for another five or ten years.

“Summers.”

With difficulty, Scott dragged his attention away from his racing thoughts. He looked up to see Logan standing in the doorway of his office.

Suddenly Scott knew he would kill the son of a bitch. He didn’t know how but he would. Once upon a time he had aspired only to drive Logan out of the mansion. Now he knew that nothing less than Logan’s death would appease him.

“Yes?” he said politely.

Logan had the good sense not to walk into Scott’s office and take a seat. He continued to stand in the doorway. He said nothing for a moment; he seemed oddly subdued.

He said, “Something you should know.”

Scott waited.

“I moved into Jeannie’s room. So now you know. So it ain’t gonna be a surprise.”

 _Does he think I still love her?_ “Got it,” Scott said. He was going to kill Logan but not over Jean Grey.

Logan paused. After a moment, he spoke again. “Something else you should know. I would never deliberately hurt a kid.”

He was going to kill Logan _slowly_. “Got it,” he repeated.

Logan sighed. It was a very un-Loganish thing to do.

 _Is he done?_ Scott wondered.

“Liberty Island.”

_Apparently not._

“When you were… sick. You said we left Jean on Liberty Island. You said we brought someone else home.”

“Mystique?” Scott raised his eyebrows. “I was delirious, Logan. Low blood sugar.”

“And you said something else. Something about Lehnsherr’s machine.”

“What about it?”

“The energy wave. It rolled right over us.”

“So?” Scott shrugged. “It didn’t affect us. It only affected humans. It certainly wouldn’t have affected you.”

Logan nodded. He didn’t look relieved. If anything, he looked grimmer. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

He stepped back into the hall and softly closed the door.

Scott reviewed the somewhat perplexing conversation and was satisfied. Obviously Logan had come to his office to provoke him, goad him into an argument, elicit another explosion of rage. _That can never happen again_. Scott touched his glasses, now his only pair of glasses.

The impromptu meeting with Logan reminded Scott that it was high time he sought out Jean. He felt an almost overwhelming urge to avoid her, like a child afraid of the bogeyman, and he was disgusted with himself. She was his ex-girlfriend, not the devil. She was, in fact, a bona fide hero. She had saved his life and the lives of everyone in the Institute, maybe everyone in Salem Center, and he needed to acknowledge her audacity and courage and express his thanks. It was petty, it was immature, it was boorish of him to keep putting it off.

However, thanking Jean was a difficult proposition because he caught only occasional glimpses of her around the mansion. He wasn’t going to knock on her bedroom door, and he couldn’t seek her out in the sublevels, not because Ororo had removed his access but because Ororo _thought_ she had removed his access. Storm had yet to figure out that prior to offering his resignation, Cyclops had used his administrator account to replicate his privileges under the code name “Circe.”

Scott had hoped to bump into Jean in the school elevator or on the central staircase, in one of the common areas or perhaps outdoors. But casual comments made by the household staff and the nurse confirmed his own observation that Jean tended to leave the house before breakfast and stay away until after dinner. Scott knew Jean wasn’t spending enough time at the Institute to fulfill her contractual obligations, so she must have negotiated a new employment contract with Charles. He wondered if she was now working full-time at the medical center, if she might even be preparing to resign from the Institute and move near Columbia University. But then, why would she escalate her relationship with Logan? The team leader couldn’t move out.

Scott shifted his gaze to the schoolhouse clock above his door. He started to get up and sat back down as his desk phone rang.

“Scott Summers, Xavier Institute, how may I help you?”

“Good afternoon, Scott, or an early good evening.” Hank spoke with the precise modulation of a Shakespearean-trained actor, but it was no affection. His exactness of speech reflected the rigor of his thoughts.

“Hi, Hank.” He no longer asked _How are you?_ He said instead, “It’s good to hear from you.”

“As you may have guessed, I am calling with an update. I am happy to report that the seed crystal is growing in the autoclave.” Years ago Hank had labored to explain how he could reduce rubies and rose quartz to their molecular components and combine them to create a hybrid mineral. He had also endeavored to explain _hydrothermal synthesis_ to Scott, the high-heat, high-pressure process by which he cultivated ruby-quartz in his laboratory. “In about two hundred days we will have a sufficient supply to fashion two new lenses for you.”

“Thank you. Thanks, Hank.”

“I examined your fractured lenses, and frankly…. Let us hope that we may attribute your recent power surge to an excess of emotion. If your optic energy is strengthening, the day may come when ruby-quartz lenses will no longer contain the blast. Do you understand the ramifications, Scott?”

 _Jesus._ “Yes,” he said dully. “I will have to live blind again.”

“I hope that would be an option.” Hank paused. “When you described the event to me, you said there came a point at which you could no longer manage to keep your eyes closed.”

Scott breathed in deeply and breathed out slowly.

“I must raise another unpleasant issue for discussion, and that is the cost of your new glasses.”

Startled, Scott said nothing.

“As you know, creating the seed crystal, growing the mineral, is a labor-intensive process, one that would not even be possible without using the specialized equipment available to me through Columbia University Medical Center. I must account to my employer for the hours I spend on this project. I must account for my assistant’s time as well. As you also know, my mutation has impacted my manual dexterity and I rely on her to execute my instructions.”

Still Scott said nothing, this time because he did not know what to say that would not sound pitying. Hank could no longer type on a keyboard, or handwrite, or hold a test tube or manipulate a scientific instrument. Months ago, Jean had told Scott that Hank could no longer manage a knife or fork or spoon and insisted on eating alone. He used assistive devices and technology for people with disabilities, but leaned heavily on his lab assistant, a human who had loyally stuck by Hank when his latent mutation had unexpectedly manifested in the previous year.

Hank resumed. “The Institute covered the cost when you were a minor, a ward of the Institute. Now that you are twenty-seven, we must discuss how you will reimburse the medical center for these glasses.”

Well, there was a bracing dose of reality. How quickly one became accustomed to living in a mansion on the largesse of Charles Xavier.

An answer fell into Scott’s head. “I’m covered under the Institute’s health care plan. I have an eye disease and the glasses are a necessary prosthetic device, without which I can’t see. It’ll be covered under major medical.” _I hope._

“Ah. Of course. I must admit that so mundane a solution never occurred to me.”

“I’ll need to submit a preauthorization request. Which means I’ll need a statement from you, if you could please provide one.”

“Certainly. I presume you’ll need a statement from Jean as well.”

Scott internally groaned. Did he really need to beg his cheating girlfriend for help? He recollected that Lucia Campos had access to his medical records and could furnish copies of the appropriate pages. And… “I’ll get a statement from Dr. Singh.” Dr. Singh was Mrs. Patel’s married daughter, an ophthalmologist married to an optometrist. Together they handled all the students’ eye care needs. “She’s the one who signed off on the vision test for me, for the Division of Motor Vehicles.”

“Excellent. In fact, please speak with her husband about grinding the lenses for you. You might ask him to examine the lenses you wear now. I am certain he can improve upon them. I did a rather amateurish job nine years ago.”

“Your amateurish job is someone else’s moon landing, but it’s a great idea. I’ll talk to him…. So when will we see you again, Hank? I hope you’re not going to wait until Thanksgiving to come home.”

“I will visit the Institute sometime before Thanksgiving.” Hank paused again. “I must meet with Charles to discuss arrangements for my long-term care.”

Scott sat back, shocked.

“Scott, I am taking you into my confidence because my situation directly impacts you. To be blunt, one day I will lack both the facilities and the intellectual capacity to create ruby-quartz. I am refining my notes on the process so that perhaps another person may be able to assist you in the future. There is my assistant, although I don’t know where life will take her next….”

“Hank, what’s going on? What’s happening?”

Hank laughed sardonically. “I am losing my mind, Scott, in little pieces along the highway. Thank you, Mother Nature. Apparently, my proper role is that of a beast.”

“I, I….” What could he say that would sound supportive, not pitying?

“Oh, I’ll muddle along here for a while. But I’m searching for an adjunct position in an undergraduate program. I think I can manage to teach college chemistry for a few years.”

“Hank.” _This needs to be a face-to-face conversation, not a conversation over the phone._

“And on a more prosaic note, I fear for my physical safety. I cannot venture out in public anymore. My home health aide drives me to work and does my shopping. Of course, my insurance didn’t want to pay for her services. I’m fortunate that the Worthington Foundation fought that battle for me.” Hank paused. “You may wonder why I am confiding in you instead of Jean.”

Scott did wonder. Hank was Jean’s age, Jean’s professional peer, Jean’s friend. Scott Summers was the boy with whom Jean had unaccountably taken up. Hank had grown warmer as Scott had grown older, but Scott always suspected Hank treated him cordially mostly to remain in Jean’s good graces.

“Because…. Scott, do you remember, when your mutation manifested, do you remember asking me if there were a cure? Oh, how you hoped there was a pill you could take to make it all go away.”

Scott thought: _So that is what he is going to do with the last vestiges of his genius._

“And I, in my insufferable arrogance….” Hank choked up. “It seems I am one of those detestable people who cannot empathize until they themselves undergo the same experience. Forgive me, Scott.”

“There is absolutely nothing to forgive. You gave me my sight back. You changed my life. And because you did that, I’ve been able to change other people’s lives.” Scott spoke forcefully. “Hank, I took Erik down on Liberty Island with the visor you invented for me. You saved three hundred diplomats on Ellis Island. You saved millions of people in New York and New Jersey. _You_ did that. That’s what I want you to think about tonight, Hank.”

Scott heard a knock, a door opening, and belatedly realized that Hank must be on speakerphone. “Dr. McCoy, it’s time to dial in for the videoconference with Dr. Kavita Rao in Los Angeles.” He heard the door close.

When Hank spoke again, his voice was considerably steadier. “Well, I can’t say I’m proud to have played a part in saving three hundred diplomats, but… the rest sounded pretty good.” He managed a chuckle. “I have another meeting.”

“Go. We’ll talk more later.”

Scott put the phone receiver down.

He touched his glasses. His nine-year-old glasses. _How do I make these last for the rest of my life?_

He thought of Hank, thought of his massive intellect shriveling until he was no more intelligent than… well, Scott Summers… and continuing to shrivel until he needed to be managed and tended like a beast. Scott thought of Rogue, the mutant Typhoid Mary. He thought of himself, how one day _nothing_ might be able to contain the optic blast. He thought of Charles. What would happen if Charles Xavier ever got Alzheimer’s?

He understood that Hank intended to find a means of inhibiting expression of the X gene. Most likely he'd succeed. After all, the world contained an unknown number of gamma-class mutants in whom the X gene was naturally suppressed. But Scott did not intend to do or say anything about Hank. For one thing, he wasn’t the leader of the X-Men anymore. For another, the United States government would probably beat Hank to it. And lastly, Charles would pluck the thought from Hank’s head and do whatever the hell he felt like doing, as usual.

Scott sighed and looked up at the schoolhouse clock over his door. It was close to 5 p.m. His staff would be preparing to lead his kids downstairs to the dining hall. He needed to join them. And if Jean miraculously appeared, he really, really needed to draw her aside and speak with her.

Scott pushed back his chair and wearily got to his feet. He shut off the box fan and closed his office windows in anticipation of the thunderstorm that had been brewing in the west for hours. The dark, humid, ominous day already seemed to have lasted a year and there were still more hours to get through before he could retreat to his bed.

***

Apparently Logan had equal difficulty finding opportunities to speak with Rogue. Otherwise, Scott supposed he would have found a more private venue to conduct what appeared to be an important conversation with the girl. Through the steadily growing crowd in the dining hall he glimpsed Logan and Rogue standing by the French windows leading into the north garden. Logan was talking with evident earnestness; Rogue’s back was turned. 

Only belatedly did Scott recognize a tactic long relied upon by men and women wishing to dump their husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, with minimum fuss: Do the deed in a public venue, so the victim would be too embarrassed to scream and cry and make a scene. Maybe Logan hadn’t explored all the features of his Institute-issued Blackberry and didn’t know he could break Rogue’s heart by text message. Because Scott was pretty certain Logan was breaking Rogue’s heart.

If he didn’t detest Logan, he would have felt sorry for the man. Scott knew quite well how uncomfortable it was to be the object of someone else’s fantasies. He too had been in the awkward position of “breaking up” with people with whom he had never had a romantic or sexual relationship. He could imagine Logan struggling to explain why he was moving into Jean’s suite, when he owed Rogue no explanation at all. Still, Scott felt a pang of sympathy for Rogue. He knew the love affair with Logan existed only in her head, but it was real to her.

Scott walked away from the kids’ table towards the other end of the dining hall until he stood several feet behind Rogue. Logan stopped talking and glared over her shoulder. Before Logan could speak, Scott said quietly but commandingly, “Rogue.”

Immediately she turned around. “Hi, Mr. Summers.”

She was composed and clear-eyed. Scott was proud of her.

“I’m sorry to interrupt….”

“Then don’t,” Logan snapped.

“It was nothin’ important,” Rogue said coolly. “What can I do for you?”

“I could use your help tonight at the kids’ table. Would you mind sitting with us?”

“No problem.”

She walked briskly away, leaving Logan standing in open-mouthed surprise.

Scott did not linger in Logan’s vicinity. He had caught sight of Jean entering the dining hall and quickly moved in her direction. _Finally_. Jean-sightings had become as rare as comet-sightings and he did not want to miss the opportunity. Unfortunately, a chorus of shrieks spun him around and sent him sprinting in the opposite direction to quell a fight breaking out at the kids’ table.

For the remainder of the dinner hour, Rogue sat at one end of the table and he at the other, two helpers in between, all four absorbed in getting the younger children fed with minimum mess and maximum good manners. He and Rogue exchanged occasional brief smiles across the table but had no opportunity to speak with each other. Rogue proved unexpectedly capable with the toddlers and Scott was impressed, not merely with her competence but with her demeanor. _There’s steel in that backbone,_ he thought admiringly. He didn’t doubt the other teens were well aware of Logan’s new living arrangements and were avidly watching Rogue, but she behaved as serenely as a madonna. 

Scott glanced just once at the senior staff table. Logan lounged in Scott’s accustomed seat, laughing and talking with Jean, Ororo and Charles; and Scott experienced a dizzying moment of disorientation, as if he were a ghost watching the living. He shook his head to clear it and suddenly thought of Jubilee’s hungry ghost. _Well, I haven’t been murdered… yet._

The small children always finished their dinner before the older students and staff, and he, Rogue, Mrs. Gonzalez and Mrs. Patel got up to help the kids carry their plates, cups and cutlery to plastic tubs stationed on rolling carts around the dining hall. In his peripheral vision Scott noticed Jean departing the senior staff table, apparently not willing to linger over dessert and decaf coffee. With a murmured _excuse me_ to Mrs. Patel, he hastily moved to intercept her.

Jean stopped, darting glances to her left and right, as if searching for an escape route, as Scott blocked her way. Behind the portcullis of the mind-castle, Scott thought in exasperation, _Oh, save the act for Broadway._

“May I speak with you?”

“This isn’t the time or place.”

They were the first words he and Jean had exchanged since the night he had taken the ring back. Around the dining hall, people were nudging each other. Heads were turning and conversations were slowing.

“I only need a moment,” Scott said. “If we could step out into the hall.”

“I’d rather not.”

Realization suddenly dawned. Jean thought he intended to fight with her about Logan moving into the suite. She was egotistical enough to think he still cared.

He said, “Then allow me to thank you for saving my life. You saved me, and everyone in the Institute. I’m grateful.”

In a Hollywood movie, this would be the moment they fell into each other’s arms and instantly reconciled. But it wasn’t a Hollywood movie.

“There a problem?”

 _Oh, for God’s sake._ Here was Popeye, come to save Olive Oyl from the evil Bluto. Without deigning to look at Logan, Scott said, “You already know there isn’t a problem. You heard every word I said.”

Jean raised her voice. “Scott, you need to leave me alone. Stop following me around. Our relationship is over and you need to accept that.”

Scott stared dumbly at her. He was acutely aware of their passionately interested audience. _I gave her an audience._ Too late he realized his strategic error. He had walked into an ambush and had no idea how to save himself.

“Mr. Summers, you asked me to remind you about your six o’clock call with Miss Betsy Braddock.” Rogue appeared at his side. She flashed a smile at Jean. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but she’s callin’ from England. I’ve always wanted to go to England. I’m sure Mr. Summers will have a great time.”

“Right,” Scott said. He turned away and walked through the dining hall and out into the main hallway. He stopped because his legs were trembling.

“Keep goin’,” Rogue muttered. Once again she was at his side. “Keep walkin’. Let’s go to your office.”

The administrative wing was deserted. Shrouded in mahogany paneling, the gloomy hall was relieved only by the dim yellow light of the wall scones. Scott stopped in front of his office, put his hand on the crystal knob of the heavy wooden door and twisted it open. He walked in and stopped, unable to take another step.

Rain pummeled the windows and a burst of lightning illuminated the office as Rogue shut and locked the door. She walked around Scott and turned on the kitschy lava lamp perched on the end table beside the couch. As a thunderclap seemed to vibrate the house, she strode to the windows and pulled the heavy drapes closed. Scott looked at the lamp in confusion.

“Those two,” Rogue said, as well as she could through clenched teeth, “do not get to ruin our lives.”

“I’m not a stalker.”

Rogue stripped off her gloves and flung them onto his desk like a combatant throwing down the gauntlet. “Jesus, Scott, I know that.” She yanked at the buttons of her blouse. “She’s pissed off because you _don’t_ stalk her.” She threw the blouse aside and unzipped her skirt. “And what the fuck is up with her hair? What color is that supposed to be?” She kicked off her sandals and stepped out of her skirt.

White light edged the drapes. Another drumroll of thunder rattled the windows. Scott stared at Rogue. Idiotically, he said, “How do you know about Betsy Braddock?”

“The guys in the auxiliary. Bunch of gossipy old maids. What’s the deal with you and telepaths? Never mind, I don’t care.” She unfastened the front clasp of her bra and her heavy breasts tumbled free. “You gonna stand there or you gonna do somethin’?”

“Rogue –”

“Marie. My name is Marie.”

Scott stared at her. Another lightning burst illuminated the ceiling above the drapes. He wondered if he were asleep and dreaming. Or awake and hallucinating. None of this could be real, not the naked girl, or the shag rug on the floor, or the midcentury chairs, or the vintage sunburst clock.

_The naked girl is real._

He dropped his suit jacket and tie on the floor. He popped the collar of his oxford business shirt to protect his throat, scooped up the blouse off the floor and shoved his hands inside the long sheer sleeves, turning the sleeves into impromptu gloves.

“Marie,” he breathed. He reached for her face but she twisted away and arched her back, presenting her breasts to him, and he was unable to resist curling his fingers tightly around them and kneading. Marie breathed harshly as he nursed first one and then the other nipple to erection through the fabric of the blouse.

He raised his head and said, “Marie, I –” He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to stroke every inch of her lush body. He wanted to span her tiny waist with his hands and grip her wide hips and ride her to exhaustion. Why was the unfuckable girl so fuckable? _Mother Nature is a cruel bitch._

She said breathlessly, challengingly, “That – all – you – got?”

Scott hesitated, then, dropping to his knees in front of her, he muscled her legs widely apart with his shoulders and pressed his lips to the crotch of her silk panties.

She slumped back against the desk, breathing raggedly, trembling as he worked the silk with his lips and tongue, sucking it, wetting it, soaking it with his saliva. He used his gloved hands to keep her thighs spread, acutely aware of how dangerously close his unprotected face was to her bare skin, as he mouthed her vulva through the fabric, forced his tongue between her labia, searched for her clitoris. Through the crotch of her panties he located the nub and he sucked it between his lips.  

Marie cried out and gripped his shoulders, unintentionally pulling him off balance. For an instant his forehead touched her lower belly. He righted himself and thought _one more goddamn slip like that and I’m dead._ Adrenaline flooded him like gasoline and his cock jerked and filled, lengthened and hardened.

Marie gasped, “More. I need more.”

Scott dragged his tongue over and over her clitoris. He could taste her, now; her panties were soaked with more than his saliva. Even through the silk he could feel her clitoris rising and engorging. He fastened his mouth tightly around it and sucked and licked relentlessly until she uttered a short sharp scream and he felt her clitoris pulsing under the tip of his tongue.

Scott gripped her thighs tightly and rode out her orgasm. When he heard her long-drawn-out, satisfied groan he tipped his head back and looked up, panting. Even in the dim light he could see the hectic flush highlighting her cheekbones and the sweaty hair sticking to her forehead.

“Scott.” Marie groaned again. _“Scott.”_

Carefully Scott backed out from beneath her hands and between her legs, and stood. He threw the blouse over his shoulder, unbuttoned and unzipped his slacks, and reached into his boxer-briefs.

Marie’s breathing slowed. Slowly she opened her eyes, her gaze going immediately to his erection.

“Never a condom when you need one,” he said with a strangled laugh. It was the first erection he’d had since… since the night Jean almost lobotomized him.

Silently Marie reached behind herself, picked up her gloves and pulled them on. Leaning forward, she wrapped her fingers around Scott’s penis and squeezed.

With no further stimulation he ejaculated into her hands. Semen soaked her gloves and dripped to the floor, and Scott hunched over, shivered and gasped and clenched his fists, willing himself not to touch her, spasming again and again until finally he was drained dry.

Slowly he straightened. Marie smiled smugly and he couldn’t help laughing again, a real laugh. He felt good, great, body thrumming like a well-tuned engine.

“Thank you.”

“Jesus, you’re so polite.” She smiled again and peeled off her wet gloves. Turning aside, she picked up her bra, tucked her breasts into the cups and fastened the clasp. Stepped into her skirt and zipped it up. Slipped on her sandals.

Rain pattered against the windows and thunder muttered from a far distance. Scott glanced around his office. Which of course looked like his office. It looked just as it always had. The small tiffany-style lamp on the end table by the couch. The fake oriental rug on the floor. The club chairs.

“I mean… for everything. For coming to my rescue in the dining hall. For….” He didn’t really like to say _for curing my post-traumatic Jean erectile dysfunction syndrome,_ so he merely handed her blouse back to her and she put it on. “You can put those gloves in the wash, right? Or do I owe you a new pair?”

“Nah, I can wash ’em. But maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just save ’em for a while. Nail ’em to the wall. You know, my daddy had this moose head with the antlers hangin’ up in his den….”

“Are you comparing me to a moose? Is that all this was to you, a moose hunt?”

Marie stopped laughing and looked earnestly up at him. “Any other guy would be actin’ like he did me a big favor. Like I oughta be grovelin’ at his feet. And here you are thankin’ me.”

Awkwardly Scott looked away. He fixed his collar, tied his tie, put on his suit jacket.

He needed to regroup and revise his campaign plan. He used to think he wanted Jean back, and he had always known exactly how to get her back. Logan was a nasty little bully who only wanted to play with other boys’ toys, specifically, Scott Summers’ toys, so if Scott Summers appeared to be enamored of Rogue, Logan would abandon Jean and go after Rogue. But now Scott wasn’t willing to give up Rogue, _Marie_. Now he intended to drive Logan _and_ Jean out of the mansion. No, he intended to _kill_ Logan and drive Jean out. He didn’t think Marie would object.

He put his hands on her shoulders and said, “I have the carriage house in Salem Center for a few more weeks. I want to see you this Saturday. I want to… I want to fuck you.” He laughed embarrassedly. “Sorry. I can be romantic, honestly.”

She said seriously, “Yes, I’ll be there. And I want you to fuck me. Not make love to me. Fuck me.”

Scott swallowed. “I can do that.”

“Good.” She looked up over his head. “Damn. It’s seven.”

Scott immediately felt guilty. He knew Mrs. Patel and Mrs. Gonzalez would be in the midst of getting the kids washed and pajama’d and ready for story hour. And inexcusably, he had not been upstairs to help soothe the children during the thunderstorm. “I’ve got to go.”

“Yeah, me too.” Marie smiled. “I better get ahead on my homework if I’m gonna take Saturday off.”

Scott turned around and looked at the sunburst clock over the door. He frowned. “Something’s wrong with that clock.”

“Yeah, it’s hung crooked. I know how that must torture your soul. Come on.”

She picked up her saturated gloves with one hand and snapped off the lamp with the other as they left the office.

The administrative wing was as dark and desolate as before. They emerged into the main house and an empty hallway; the dinnertime crowd would have dispersed thirty minutes ago. Scott thought he had a good shot at getting upstairs without running into anyone. He wondered if Marie’s quick thinking had truly ameliorated the damage caused by Jean’s Oscar-winning performance in the dining hall. And then, like Scarlett O’Hara, he thought, _Tomorrow is another day._

He and Marie paused in front of the elevator and central staircase across from the foyer. They looked at each other. Finally Scott smiled and pressed the button for the elevator. “I think I’ll be lazy.”

“I think I’ll take the stairs.” She lowered her voice. “You need to wash your face. And, uh, brush your teeth.”

He nodded and the elevator door opened and Logan stepped out.

Momentum carried him three more steps past Scott and Marie before he ground to a halt like a tank throwing a track. Several seconds ticked by. He turned around.

Scott caught the elevator door. “Good night, Rogue.”

Marie smiled demurely. “Good night, Mr. Summers. Good night, Logan.”

She turned and began to climb the stairs, swinging her gloves.

Logan seemed incapable of speech or further movement. He stood as if paralyzed, staring at Scott.

Scott shrugged. “She made a choice,” he said. “She chose me.” He walked into the elevator and the door closed in Logan’s face.

**Author's Note:**

> X1 hit the theaters in July 2000. For this story, I decided that the Liberty Island mission took place in May 2000, because we are shown snow in Canada but springlike conditions in New York.
> 
> The age gap between Scott and Jean exists only in movieverse, and only because there was a nine-year age gap between the actor and actress who portrayed them. James Marsden, who played Scott, was born in in 1973 and was age 27 in X1. Famke Janssen, who played Jean, was born in 1964 and was age 36 in X1. Halle Berry, who played Ororo, was born in 1966 and was age 34 in X1, but in this story I portray her as younger than Scott.
> 
> Believe it or not, I _like_ Logan! And I like Jean too! But remember this story is being told from _possibly insane_ Scott’s point of view. 
> 
> You may notice that I describe Jean as looking more like her comicverse self than Famke Janssen. And Jean and her parents aren't described as Irish in comicverse. I just made that up.
> 
> Scott's optic blasts are not laser beams. The comicverse makes that abundantly clear, but the movie producers didn't care enough about the Scott character to even describe his power correctly. The beams consist of pure concussive (or kinetic) force; no heat involved; think of a cannon ball, not a laser beam. Comicverse has two different canon explanations for this. Explanation #1: Scott is (at least partially) solar-powered. He draws energy from sunlight as well as food. He converts solar power into the optic blast. Explanation #2: Pure concussive force doesn't exist in our universe. Thus, Scott is a pass-through to an alternate universe or dimension where pure concussive force does exist. Theoretically someone could crawl through his brain into another universe. This is what his children inherited, how his children Nathan and Rachel can time-travel or hop through alternate dimensions, and perhaps Scott could have too, if his brain had not been damaged. 
> 
> In comicverse, Scott is usually portrayed as a clever strategic thinker who sometimes engages in deceptive maneuvers that result in big payoffs. He is also portrayed as a expert at bluffing. And that is the portrayal I use in this story.


End file.
